


a tremor in earth

by asexualizing (Specialcookies), brieflybe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Drug Use, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Premature Labour, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Torture, baby loss, not of either sherlock nor john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-27 12:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6284119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Specialcookies/pseuds/asexualizing, https://archiveofourown.org/users/brieflybe/pseuds/brieflybe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Four minutes, probably. Or maybe six, maybe he miscalculated. This wouldn't be a hero's death. There is nothing to be done. Except – "I am in love with you," he states, and his voice is clear, his hands finally steady. "As can easily be deduced from both my behavior and my mannerism. If I hadn't known how oblivious you can be at the best of times I'd be amazed that you haven't –" He swallows, then, his voice sort of gives out, breath all knocked out of him. There is no point to this. "I thought I might as well let you know."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Moriarty doesn't come back. Sherlock is exiled to Russia, but not before telling John the truth. John is left to deal with the consequences on his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Job's Tidings

**Author's Note:**

> We would like to thank [ladyquack-a-lot](http://www.ladyquack-a-lot.tumblr.com) and [ohmylawd](http://www.ohmylawd.tumblr.com) for their skillful and quick beta work. The title is taken from Alarms In The Heart by Dry the River. Go listen to them. They'll make you want to die, it'll be great.
> 
> This fic was plotted ages ago, post the season 3 final, and cruelly abandoned because life got in the way. Then TAB happened, and inspiration returned. We had so much fun writing this, and are thrilled that it's finally leaving our dusty drawers and sees the light of day (or whatever time it is wherever it is you live).

It all feels terribly repetitive by this point – crush to the ground or soar to the sky, the East Wind will be there either way, removing you from life, removing you from home, pushing time forward. It's not that Sherlock is worthy, generally – it's that he's more worthy than most, and it feels unfair at best, avoidable at worst, just plain predictable either way; and Sherlock plans to make it seven months at least, so there.

What do people say, then? Right, there's nothing new under the sun. Jump off a building or board a plane, he's terribly good at deceiving John in regards to the status of his existence. John doesn't know when he lives, can't tell when he dies, and how can he not find it funny, the poetic irony of it – a punchline or a punch to the gut, it's all the same, really. The world is made of soft edges and sharp colours, Mary Morstan awfully bright while John Watson is dimmed by a sad, thoughtful expression and a jumper. Sherlock won't make it seven months, he'd forgotten completely for a second there, so how can they not see the joke here. Sherlock can see it and his heart is beating frighteningly fast, deafeningly loud in his chest, jumping towards his throat, and if he closes his eyes it feels like laughing.

The joke is Mary kissing him on the cheek, leaning close to where the entrance wound is, and Sherlock can't find it in him to begrudge her the pain, or her smile, or the swell of her belly. He thinks, briefly, of a little girl with sandy yellow hair, with John's kindness and Mary's sharp mind, sharp tongue, sharp, painted nails. Then he deletes her, the girl, that is, and the dark twist in Mary's eyes. There's hardly a point. _John Watson is definitely in_ dan _-ger_ , he hears. If you listen for a long enough time it sounds like the wind. It echoes around him. It feels selfish in a way he can't quite put his finger on. The way everyone steps away from John and him when asked, leaving them staring at each other, speechless – it feels like that. Like his name on John's blog, his name of John's lips, his name on John's gravestone. Sherlock knows that it's a girl, knows that every son John will have will be named after him, anyway, because John is that sort of person, and he doesn't feel like a coward right now – _Sherlock is actually a girl’s name, dear god_. He felt like a coward while trying to speak. The truth feels selfish, is the thing, the truth feels futile, for once, so common there is no value to it; it will be deleted within the next seven minutes or the next seven months, he's not quite sure.

He falters. One of the rooms inside his head is set on fire and he can't figure out which one. It shines through his skin, though, the heat is, at least, and John, shaking his hand goodbye (no hug, no heartbeats), is too daft to feel it. That's it, mostly – the joke is, and John should be able to see it, John is the center of it, he's so incredibly close that John Watson is a doctor, and Sherlock is probably in a dire need of one, but John can't figure that out. Six minutes? Probably still seven – months, seven months, he's feeling so much better. The list is crumpled in his coat pocket and he can't remember what he wrote. John should have seen it – Mary have seen it, seen some of it, at least, and John can't go on being so oblivious now he's alone (not alone, not really – a wife and a child and a flash drive – no, that was burnt. He'll probably realize in a decade or so, too dull to be mourning).

What Sherlock actually says is: "Of course you're not naming your daughter after me, that would be moronic." He says it after the other thing he actually said – "To the very best of times”. Pointless, really, what John expected to hear. John Watson believes the matters of the heart are a mystery to him, but chemistry is incredibly simple, isn't it? Sherlock's skin is burning, his pulse – elevated, pupils dilated, a slight tremor in his hands, it's so obvious, he's about to jump again and John is not even looking, though he should know better, though clearly none of Sherlock's apologies means: I will never do it again.

Still six minutes. He feels like a goner, John Watson is an idiot that sees only what he wants to see, but surely Sherlock's death won't hit as hard this time, with John going numb, sinking into ignorance, forgetting slowly everything that Sherlock has taught him. He does not observe, he'd see it if he tried, all of it, he'll see how Mycroft is being kind and Mary is being quiet, how there is no other outcome – it all feels terribly repetitive by this point. John, who announces he'll never trust certain people again but just misses them too damn much. John, who the East Wind is coming for his wife as well, except Sherlock has managed to distract it. John would have gotten himself imprisoned if he knew, so he clearly doesn't. John, staring dead eyed at sonograms pictures, trying to find answers that are not there. He's looking into Sherlock's eyes when he should be looking at his hands. He's always searching the wrong place.

He says, "Our last conversation ever, you should think I have something better to say."

John blinks at him. He looks weary, like he's afraid that Sherlock is going to make him shout.

"Well," he says, hesitantly, "Don't be too hard on yourse – "

"Oh no, don't be absurd, I mean, you should have assumed I have something better to say."

"Oh," says John. He shuffles awkwardly in place, and it feels as if the whole world does it along-side him. "Well, would you like to – "

Four minutes, probably. Or maybe six, maybe he miscalculated. This wouldn't be a hero's death. There is nothing to be done. Except – "I am in love with you," he states, and his voice is clear, his hands finally steady. "As can easily be deduced from both my behavior and my mannerism. If I hadn't known how oblivious you can be at the best of times I'd be amazed that you haven't –" He swallows, then, his voice sort of gives out, breath all knocked out of him. There is no point to this. "I thought I might as well let you know."

It takes him a few moments to realize he's stilling himself for something that doesn't come. John looks – expressionless, and slightly cold, lips parted. He forces himself to relax, tries to, anyway, because John can't do anything, has no power in the Sherlock Is Leaving Forever scheme, and so can't actually make anything better or worst –

"What?" John says.

_Idiot._

"Touching as I'm sure this is; Sherlock has a plane to catch." Mycroft's dry voice cuts in, and John looks up at him, eyes wide, suddenly startled.

John nods, but doesn't have time to do anything else as Mycroft orders, "Now, I'm afraid." and gestures for Sherlock to follow.

Sherlock feels slightly numb as he goes after him, like this isn't really about him; if he boards the plane, John will wait inside. _Idiot._

"You know, he was going to be insufferable about the whole ordeal even without what you just did to him." Mycroft chastises. His expression is grave, and the thought of John chasing him around like Sherlock's own shouty ghost amuses Sherlock greatly.

"Excellent," he says. "Good luck with that." He quickens his steps, then – three months? Minutes? Five minutes? It's so warm, all over, at least it will be cold in Russia.

He doesn’t say anything else as he gets aboard the plane and takes his seat. He looks at the window, but not on anything specific. Then he pulls out his phone.

" _I don't know if I'm meant to be writing this,_ " it says. There are spots dancing behind his eyes as he reads. 

~

He thinks about falling. From a tree, when you’re six and not nearly long enough to reach the next branch. To the muddy grass when you’re seventeen and the opposing team is all twice the size of you. To your knees in the toilet when you’re twenty-two and you’ve just seen your first body with a severed limb, on the running track in army training, in the sand because you’re being shot at, in the sand because you’re trying to save someone’s life, in the sand because you’ve failed, in the sand because you’re dying. Off a building, to the pavement, out of your own head. For a girl named Anna, for your commanding officer, for your wife.

Falling isn’t hard.

Sherlock steps inside the plane, Mycroft stays behind, and John stands on the tarmac waiting for the great cry of the engines to drive home the awful truth of this goodbye. Waiting for something to be louder than his racing mind, to shut up Sherlock’s voice, to go so fast up it reverses the whole process and Sherlock never said anything at all, and they’re actually meeting for the first time.

He thinks about lying. Lying to save your own skin, lying to save someone else’s, lying just because. To your family, to your friends, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m _fine,_ to your best friend to yourself to get what you want.

Lying isn’t hard.

The plane lines itself for takeoff, Mycroft stepping back towards the car, where Mary stands with her hands in her pockets, swaying on her heels. They wait for John.

If he’ll stay standing right at this spot, Sherlock will, too. The plane, at least. They won’t let him get out, they will get people to drag John away. He won’t even fight them. It’s a lost cause. They won’t let him get out. He’s frighteningly calm, breathing in and out, thinking clearly, about forgiveness, both as a concept and as a practicality, both as redemption and as a vain attempt at one. If he’ll stay standing right at this spot, maybe it won’t come, what surely is coming. The tightness is his chest is the only tell-tale of the explosion that will take over him, that will rattle the walls and collapse the ceiling like it should have at the pool. Stuck in place, stuck in time, this will be infinitely better than the world rushing back in like that moment he realized Sherlock was alive.

He counts his heartbeats, counts the flickering of the runway lights, counts the seconds until –

“John?”

No, no, those things aren’t hard. Falling apart. Saying you forgive your lying wife. Watching as everything changes in the speed of a bullet hitting someone.

“Come on.”

It’s believing it all. That’s what’s hard.

Mary grabs his elbow and he moves with her, more of a spectator to his own life than a participant in them, aware but not there. They walk to the car, and watch the plane getting smaller, and Mycroft eyes him as if he knows, of course he does, why else would John not get to say anything but “What?”.

Like he has anything else to say. Sherlock had let him mourn for two years but couldn’t let him live five minutes more without the crucial knowledge of his feelings when he’s off to God knows where for God knows how long. He has a tendency to leave John helpless.

Believing. In Sherlock’s genuineness, in Sherlock’s mind, in the world through Sherlock’s eyes, in Sherlock’s capability of falling in love.

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak as they duck their heads to get into the car, and John had never before felt such sympathy with Sherlock’s way of life. He shuts the door in his face.

Mary gives him a chastising look, like he’s a child acting out, and John sees Mycroft through the window, sighing and tapping his umbrella on the front door of the car to signal the driver to drive.

“You know, you’re not the only one who said goodbye,” Mary says. The bomb is ticking. There is no off switch this time.

“Mycroft doesn’t need my coddling,” he manages to reply. He looks in the rearview mirror. Mary’s reflection is rolling its eyes. He rolls the partition up, keeping his finger on the button long after it clicked shut.

“He also doesn’t need your temper.”

 _And I don’t need your patronization._ “He’ll manage.”

“I’m sure he will, it’s you I’m worried abou – “

“Thanks, I’m fine.”

He clenches his fist, feeling Sherlock’s pulse on the tip of his fingers, beating along with the ticking bomb. _Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…_

They’re sitting on either side of the backseat, John resolutely looking outside at the citifying view, catching Mary’s ghost-like reflection when the light hits the window right, and Mary slides a hand from her thigh to the leather, silently asking John to come to her. When John pretends he doesn’t see it, she sighs.

“I know it’s...difficult,” she starts, and John really, _really_ doesn’t want to hear this speech. For all that Mary knows, it was just a parting of ways. For all that Mary knows, the only thing they said was _I’m not sure when we’ll see each other again, so…_ For all that Mary knows, John is overreacting like he often does, emotions messing with his mind, caught unguarded by a typical human thing like saying goodbye. Like your best friend coming back to life. Like thinking you were going to lose him again and finding out the fault is your wife’s.

She will say, _But it’s only six months,_ and Sherlock will answer, _Who knows._ She will say, _And you’re going to have plenty of things to occupy yourself with,_ And Sherlock will answer, _My brother’s never wrong._ John will sit between his imaginary Sherlock and his pregnant wife and his ears will ring, _tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock,_ and the only words he’ll ever hear from then on will be, _Just thought I might as well let you know._

The East Wind blows relentless, regardless of what it’s leaving behind.

“If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine – “

“ – I don’t – ”

“But you can at least stop being a prat.”

It’s raining now, the drops on the glass making London live inside tiny bubbles, the sound of _tap-tap-tap_ on the metal synchronizing itself with John’s _tick-tock._ It’s building up, a crescendo of wrath, he can count down to the finale.

John presses his lips into a thin line.

Ten...Nine...Eight…

He laughs, terse, and then –

“He’s there so we can – “

His hand hits the bullet-proof glass hard enough for the shock-wave to wash over his whole body, starting at his knuckles ending at his toes, and his scream is catharsis, better than an orgasm. He faintly hears Mary’s _“Jesus fucking Christ, John,”_ and is dimly aware of the car coming to a halt. Everything’s spinning, his hand hurts so much it’s nearly numb, but John is deliriously satisfied, feels like he’s breathing again for the first time in months.

He sees the partition rolling down through watery eyes, and the driver looks at him in shock, the kind of shock that only makes John laugh. Mycroft will hear about this, but Mycroft can go fuck himself for all that John minds.

“A&E, just drive,” Mary orders the poor guy. She looks at him, eyes narrowed in... anger? disgust? worry? He can’t tell with her, and says, “Give me your hand.”

John throws his head back, grits his teeth, does as she’d asked.

“He said we should name her Sherlock,” he finds himself panting out. Mary probes at his bones, making him grunt. “No reply?” he asks when she shakes her head in disbelief, disappointment, displeasure.

“Your hand’s fucked.”

“Thought it’d make you laugh…”

“Just – Just shut up, John.”

 He shuts his eyes, breathes, _“Fuck”._

His hand is still pounding, but it’s no longer with Sherlock’s pulse. He tries not to think it, but he can’t stop.

_I am in love with you, I am in love with you, I am in love with you, I am in love with you, I am in love with –_

The roar of the aero plane drowns it out.

~

"You know, I honestly expected something good." Mary is surrounded by white – white walls, white light, white skin stretching atop her cheekbones, red trails spreading across the white of her eyes. Or are those Sherlock's eyes? He isn't sure. Her smile is crooked – hello, Mrs. Psychopath – and, as John would not understand its meaning, is aimed at Sherlock. She wears that certain expression Mycroft carried for most of their childhood – Thank you for playing, better luck next time. She almost looks bored. And Sherlock was so incredibly sure that he won, that he managed to save her (her? Him? There are flames burning behind his eyelids and for the life of him he can't stop looking at John. She doesn't look like a damsel in distress, either. She doesn't look like anything Sherlock knows).

"Well, Sherlock, are you pleased?" she tilts her head sideways, and Sherlock feels goosebumps prickling down his neck, a strange sense of déjà-vu, a thing that does not happen to Sherlock because Sherlock _remembers._ "You recruited him, you led him on. You think he's such a dare devil, following you around. He only does it because he's sure you're going to win." She sends an apologetic smile in John's direction. "Sorry, dear."

"Oh, I've lost, have I? Already?"

She rolls her eyes. "Well, detective, you're lost without your blogger." 

"Consulting detective," he answers. Brilliant. Top form.

She ignores him. "He thinks so highly of you. Should have heard him when we first met, ‘Sherlock is the smartest, most bravest person in all of Great Britain’." An eye roll – both from Sherlock and Mary. "Well, was, more like it. Smartest most bravest person who jumped off a rooftop."

"Not to his death," mutters John. He looks pissed, but not full out. Like this is a conversation that he and Mary have at breakfast.

She turns his attention to him. "Well, dear, didn't you want him back? Is it everything you thought it would be?" She does not wait for an answer. "I imagine not, neither was I. We were both so disappointing, weren't we?" She holds out the flash drive. "Fought a war and too scared to look at a drive." Her smile widens, then vanishes. "There is nothing there, you know there isn't." her gaze is fixed at Sherlock. "You would have done the same thing."

John says nothing.

"Do you think he'd have bothered to look at yours?" She throws the flash drive towards them, smiles when John catches it. “I'm the mother of his child, and you're just going to leave, and leave, and leave. Tell him what you've done with it, dear."

John glances at Sherlock, his eyes sharp, his shoulders stiff. "I've burned it."

"The Appledore vaults are on fire, Sherlock; you've made a terrible mistake." He did, and they are, they're surrounded by flames. It doesn't hurt, it's just there, like a circle of hell, and it's so terribly warm, and Mary says, "I told you before, Sherlock, I told you I will – "

The room does not collapse until John takes Mary by the hand and helps her through the door. They leave together.

~

By the time they arrive at Bart’s, car rolling into the parking space while John screws his eyes shut as tightly as he can – pretending it’s the pain, like he can’t handle it, like he didn’t handle much more, like nobody knows, especially not Mary, what’s the reason he can’t look – John’s hand had swollen out of proportion and the bruising started to appear. Mary’s been uncharacteristically quiet, only glaring at John sideways, and John would have gone crazy if it weren’t for the fact that the last thing he cares about right now is talking to people.

Unfortunately, that is a thing that has to be done while in a hospital.

“What’s the matter, then?” the nurse at the front desk asks, handing them the forms that need to be filled before going in. He can probably bypass the line, can probably find Mike and arrange something faster, less tedious, less messy, but whatever he does, it will end up in explaining why he punched a bullet-proof glass. So, no, better not find Mike.

He looks at the nurse, who has a round face and a lovely smile, soft look in her eyes and the kind of expression that makes you think people care what you have to say, and is probably a good-hearted, well-intentioned kind of person. The medical profession is full of those. Right now, it only pisses John off.

He starts filling the forms, knows them by heart, writes down the details almost mechanically. What’s the matter? He doesn’t even fucking know. It’s just Sherlock’s voice in his head, Sherlock’s ghost-touch on his hand, Sherlock’s piercing eyes and Sherlock’s piercing words and Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock _Sherlock._

“Punched a window,” he says, simple as that. Mary’s leaning on the counter, and he hears her suppressed bitter laugh. He glances at the nurse, who has two eyebrows raised. Psychiatric evaluation is usually recommended in the cases of intentional closed-fist encounters with a hard surface. _What’s your problem?_ she wants to ask, but is too polite. Mary wouldn’t have been. Not even when he thought she was the loveliest girl alive. He has a pattern there, doesn’t he? People who make him feel like a fucking idiot. “A bullet-proof one, so no need to panic, some bruising, probably a fractured metacarpal, slight angulation, most likely an acceptable one, they’ll fix it in no time.” The nurse’s mouth now hangs open. John flashes his most charming smile. “Did you study here?”

She clears her throat. “Yeah, finished last year, actually.”

“I don’t know who teaches anymore. Mike Stamford, d’you know him? Yeah? A nice chap.”

The nurse nods. She probably thinks he’s fucking bonkers. John signs his name and slides the pen back to her. “You can take a seat,” she says, puts it back in place. “They’ll call your name.”

“Thank you,” Mary replies. She grabs the form from under his hand and folds it in half. She’s out of sight in a mere second. John sends one last smile at the nurse and follows her.

He slumps in the uncomfortable chair next to Mary, looks at his hand. The knuckle of his pinky is invisible, and the skin around it has gained a light purple colouring. They will need to fix the bones in place. They’ll probably put a splint on him. He hopes it won’t require surgery, but they’ll only be able to tell after the X-ray. The waves of pain are undulating through his arm. He sighs.

Mary looks straight at nothing in particular, and says: “Anger management,” stretching the words like spilled honey, her T clicking like a full stop at the end of a sentence. “They’re going to recommend it.”

John turns his head to her, chuckles. “Maybe some couples therapy as well, hm?” he asks, sarcasm dropping like poison out of his lips. Sometimes he thinks she enjoys riling him up.

Her hand’s on her belly, rubbing it in small circles. Their baby girl is going to be born already hating them. “I really do try to understand you, John.”

“Putting a lot of effort into it, I see.”

“Well, if you would refrain from being such an _arse._ ”

“My fault, of course it’s my fault, always my fault…” he rubs his face with his uninjured hand, takes a deep breath as to not make a scene in the middle of the A&E. Mary’s still not looking at him, as angry as can be, and John can bring up so many things that will blow this whole thing up again, but he’s just – what the hell is he going to do? What the hell is he _supposed_ to do? “Maybe we just – shouldn’t talk, right now.”

“Maybe.” Mary taps her leg impatiently on the bright floor, then, suddenly, gets up. “Back in a tick,” she says before disappearing around the corner.

John slumps back in his seat, looks around. He needs to find something to occupy himself with if only to stop thinking how miserable his life is. Which, fine, is a bit dramatic, maybe. Maybe he needs to calm the fuck down. Maybe he needs to think everything through and this, this highly emotional, incredibly frustrating moment in time is, well, not the time. See, he can be logical. He can be –

_God fucking fuck this fuck._

John throws his head back, a constant, silent shout in his mind. He spots the newspaper stand and gets up so quickly his head whirls, randomly picks a paper then goes back to sit down. It’s an old one, really old, he has no idea why it’s still here but he doesn’t care, if he’ll have to read months-old news to distract himself than that’s that. Evidently, not his brightest idea.

Janine Dawson smiles at him from the page, wearing The Bloody Hat. If John could punch something again, he would. It’s like touching an exposed high voltage wire. John feels like his whole body has been burned, like all control is lost. He crumples the newspaper in his hand and the image just flashes by:

Sherlock, eyes closed, mouth soft, leaning into a kiss. Janine whispering against his mouth, they’re noses rubbing together, Sherlock’s hand on her thigh. _He made me wear the hat._

John lets the newspaper fall to the ground. Despite himself, he skims it with his eyes. He catches a line. _And that night, we were both high as a kite…_

 _Human error,_ Sherlock had said, and John was furious, was speechless. He’s that again, right now. There’s a part of his mind that says, _he knew what he was talking about_ , and another, smaller one, that wonders if this is all a joke, and a part that knows it isn’t, because Sherlock’s in Russia, and he can’t make John laugh again, and he can’t make him mad again, and he can’t be a giant pompous prick again, and as a side note, he thinks, _pressure point, pressure point, pressure point._

And then: Oh God.

“John Watson,” they call.

John wants to throw up.

~

"Are you expecting me to beg?" Mary is on her way out of the room – some room, his old one, perhaps, or his holding cell, four walls and a window that lets no sunlight in (Sherlock had covered it with a cardboard). There is very little air, but Sherlock never needed a lot; he likes cigarette smoke. There is ash on his knuckles. Mycroft has already informed him he's not sure he'll be able to fix this one. Can't bring the dead back to life, can't make the living shut up, what kind of an intelligence agency is that, anyway. But it's no matter, Sherlock had won – against Magnussen, for sure (wasn't a murderer, had people standing by. Well, good for him). Against Mycroft, maybe. Death is a last word of a kind, and Mycroft is the only one who'll know – except for her, except for Mary.

Mary raises one eyebrow. "Now why should I expect that?"

"He's right, I'll barely last six months," he states dryly. He looks at her closely, her hair is wet, wild from the wind, must be raining out, her clothes slightly wrinkled, her nail-polish eaten out. The both of them developed a look, the 'don't tell John look', only to be used in special occasions in addition to probably every day of the week, and she's using it now, as it is, as formerly stated, a day of the week (he knows she isn't really there, is the thing. He keeps made up secrets from John in his mind).

"Well then shouldn't you both go and do your begging to someone who can help you with that? Not sure what I have to offer here." She has this face, this ‘I'm just a pregnant nurse living a quiet life in the suburbs’ face, and John used to say: "It's not like how it is with you, you know, people keep underestimating her.” But that's moronic, and Sherlock never did. People think of Mary Watson whatever Mary Watson wants them to think. She lets you forget how smart she is and then berates you for it. She plays nice, then shoots you, then plays nice. She's sorry enough to kill but not enough to beg.

"Don't play dumb, it's boring."

"Yes, I imagine talking with me inside your mind would be. Maybe go outside for a while?" Then, after a bit – "You know I'll never hurt him, Sherlock. Don't be ridiculous."

"Do I know that? You've hurt him before," he bites, because she has a record, she's clearly at fault, and Sherlock is high, he's so very high. She should be humbler, anyone as clever as her would be (that's a lie, clever people are rarely humble. He means John would be).

"Oh, you mean my lies and deceit? So have you, dear. You know he still have nightmares?"

"Yes."

She smiles. "Of course."

"Promise me," he says.

"But you haven't begged yet."

"I am the sole reason you are still standing here, promise me –" It's a complete waste of his time, but he can't seem to stop. It also _is_ begging, surely she can see that.

She tilts her head to the side. "Sacrifice is not a quid pro quo, Sherlock," she says softly. "You pulled yourself out of the game. Now you're out." He could always see why John likes her.

Not himself – he has liked her too, but he's different from John, he operates differently. No, he could see why _John_ had liked her. Disguise is always a self-portrait? Who knows, but she was John's kind of person both in and out of herself, running around breaking into offices, she stuck needles in people, drawn out and cleaned up blood, superspy at a nursing school, she must have been so bored. She just hid it better – she wasn't normal, just loving, just kind.

Although, she does not seem like any of those things right this second.

"You think distance will stop me if you so much as show a sign of ill intention towards him?" he grits out. There is no way out of this conversation, not as a winner, at least. Sherlock can see all of her cards, but the problem is, she _has_ all the cards, he’s got nothing on her, arguing for the sound of his own voice, arguing as if doing something useless counts as trying to do something. Oh god, someone fetch him his revolver.

"I think it did before," she comments sweetly, reasonably, "I probably wouldn't have gotten near him if you were here."

"Oh, I very much doubt that." Sherlock's voice is cutting, or at least trying to be, his words dull. Try as he might, he has no impact on the world around him.

"Oh, not in the way you're thinking," she waves her hand dismissively. "I just mean – he was so lonely. He _needed_ me. He liked needing me instead of you, I imagine he thought you were unreliable, but who knows, really."

"I wasn't unreliable, I was dead."

"You weren't, though."

His smile is thin. "Getting there." _Death is a punchline of sorts._

"Yeah, I can see that. He only forgave me because of you, you know."

"I do know."

"So don't you trust me?"

"Not from far away, no."

"Shouldn’t have gone so far, then," She clicks her tongue. "I mean, I will gladly promise you anything, Sherlock, but you don't trust me, so what's the point? This conversation is sentimental and inefficient on the brink of insanity. If you just want to die with no regrets, go and bother my husband."

She bares her teeth at him, pulls a phone out of her pocket, hands it to Sherlock.

"It's locked," he states.

"You know the password, don't you? Takes you less than a minute to guess. Doesn't matter. He doesn't want to know. You knowing won't change anything. And your brother knows everything, he's let you go anyway – maybe he's just tired of him, he has been known to cause some – "

"I owe you, Mary, I owe you – I will find you and I will – "

" – be too late?" she offers. "That's the dead for you, late in every sense of the word." She clasps her hands together, then stands back. "Good luck with that."

And so she leaves.

~

“Alright,” Doctor Richardson closes the door behind him with his shoulder, holding the black-and-blue X-ray results in his hands. Mary straightens herself up, walks to where he hangs the pictures of John’s skeleton on the board and seems to have a great deal of interest in the shape of his bones. She took up on his suggestion to not talk, and John’s…well, he isn’t thankful as much as he’s relieved, because the idea of fucking things with Mary up after all this time just by talking is…ridiculous. “The fracture is displaced, with about forty-five degrees of angulation, so we’re gonna have to – “

“Reduce that,” Mary finishes for him.

“That’s right. Forgot who I’m dealing with here,” he smiles at Mary. _When are you due?_ He asked her when they were waiting for the X-Ray, chit-chatting with the only person in the room who would cooperate with him. _April_ , Mary answered, cheery, nearly exuberant, and they seemed to have bonded in a way John faintly remembers he had with patients. That is, before Afghanistan. It was vastly different in Afghanistan. And then there was Sherlock. And nothing had ever been the same. Doctor Richardson turns to John. “Do you even need me to explain anything? It’s a pretty common Boxer’s Fracture.”

It’s been an exceedingly long process as far as John’s concerned, longer than it should have been. All the tests, all the waiting, all the time in the world to think. And he doesn’t even know what he’s thinking about, can’t fathom the white noises and the mingled words and the constant, silent screaming that hasn’t stopped. It will never stop.

“It’s fine,” he says. Doctor Richardson exchanges a look with Mary, and John wants to shake them both and shout, _there is nothing wrong with me!_ But honestly, he’s not that good of a liar. Mary can read him much like Sherlock reads a crime scene. He imagines she sees him as one, right now, a headless corpse whose murder needs solving, a trace of blood that leads to a missing person, the writing on the wall that spells disaster. Maybe she’s forming conclusions, theories that she will test day in and day out. John will be a lab rat, and Mary the brilliant scientist that figured it all out. But it will already be too late, and the criminal is out of the country.

And maybe he’s just bags of white powder that nobody with a brain should bother with, maybe he’s a three, worth nothing more than a text message explaining how much of an idiot you are, not even a Skype call, not even a leg out of bed. Maybe he’s that easy, beneath her dignity, out of the league of only those pertaining to the lowest common denominator. Maybe she doesn’t even see him. She doesn’t even care. He can burn in his hell for as long as he’d like.

“Alright, just going to poke you for a bit,” Doctor Richardson laughs. John does feel the prick of the needle as it goes through his skin, and it does hurt when Richardson twists it around, but not enough to keep his attention at it. He’s almost sorry he doesn’t need surgery. At least then they would have put him down.

What a bitter thought. Never mind. He closes his eyes.

Doctor Richardson keeps talking, but slowly, John phases out. _If you’re there for me you fucking bastard, I never asked for any of it. None. So you can – come back. Come back. Come back._

 _Didn’t you?_ Unsurprisingly, Sherlock’s voice answers back. _You chose her._

_She shot you._

_She saved my life._

There was this moment, before The Vaults disaster, before Sherlock –

There was this moment, and John remembers it clearly, he just – he didn’t know what to make of it. Sherlock pulling him with his bare hands out of a fire. Sherlock putting the chair back. Sherlock giving his speech at the wedding. _We wouldn’t do it to John Watson._ He had to know. Well, now he does.

James never told him to loved him, but John always knew. With Sherlock, it was…well, the opposite. A cold hearted machine. The most human human being he had ever known. John had to know. Well, now he does.

His finger moves like Plasticine in Richardson’s hands as he puts the bones back in place. Mary feigns interest in a magazine she never would have liked.

What a marvelous irony it is, that John didn’t even have the chance to consciously give him up.

~

"Between you and me –" she says, her voice hard, her expression bleak, and Sherlock knows that anger, this frustration with the world – boredom can make you madder than drugs can, that black pit of nothing, that Moriarty shaped void – "Why can't people just think?"

Sherlock can't think. He's getting dizzy, his brain collapsing on top of itself. He figures, for a moment there: maybe I took the pill and lost. Then he thinks, what pill?

Oh, yeah. There is one in front of him. Dear ol' Moriarty, providing poison for the masses. But Sherlock doesn't know that yet. He barely knows John yet. He can't think, not clearly enough to get out of this, how did he get out of this, what is he even in –

Bravery, Mycroft used to say, is by far the kindest word for stupidity. He only said that because Sherlock was braver than him.

"Oh, I see," he says to Mary – she's black from head to toe, crouching in Magnussen's office. She's sitting in front of Sherlock near a desk in a college library, smiling, an excited gleam in her eyes. "You're a proper genius too."

Her smile is wicked. "Don't look it, do I? Then again, neither do you."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, not right now. How many of me are you seeing at the moment, dear?"

Sherlock fixes her with a narrow gaze. "Oh, just the usual one and a half."

She's always warm, Mary – that's one of the things that attracts John to her. When she draws near you can actually feel yourself thaw. Her smile is warm right now. It warms the room. It warms Sherlock's skin. It's burning, all around, and she's the source of it, but the fault is Sherlock's, somehow. "It was very exciting, you know," she says, and she sounds sincere, "meeting you in the flesh. John's told me all about you. Two years into…" she pauses, "your _death_ , I think he was just so happy to talk."

Sherlock crosses his hands. "He has a shrink."

"But I'm so much prettier, aren't I?" she winks. "Should have heard him talk, though. He was quite the fan. Sherlock Holmes, the great misunderstood hero with his tragic death. If you wanted him to love you all you really needed to do was to stay away."

"A fan?" he repeats, incredulous.

"You are brilliant," she states, and she's imitating him – John, that is. Brilliant, that's amazing, fantastic, incredible, you could – "You're like the hero of his favorite book, picking him as a sidekick."

"I'm his friend." He clutches his hands into fists.

"But he's not on your level, Sherlock," she corrects gently, "he's not like you and I, he doesn't think." She looks at him from behind her eyelashes. "Between you and me, why can't he just think?"

"He's smarter than he looks," he answers slowly.

"Oh, he's very smart, he just doesn't think. And he doesn't understand you – writes all about you for years on end and still can't figure out your motives, you still have to tell him. How would you put it? He sees, but he does not – "

"He doesn't see anything I don't want him to see."

"Well that only means you can't rely on him, can you? No dues ex machina for you this time."

Sherlock swallows. "And what would you have him do?"

"Shoot me, of course."

"Who is going to shoot an unarmed woman?"

"Who'll be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Magnussen went on and on about his special brand of emotional manipulation and blackmail as if the sheer concept of pressure points belongs to him. Humanity has been twisting the knife in each other's guts for as long as it exists, and it'll carry on doing that after he's gone. "He's not here," answers Sherlock.

"Oh, he'll be here," Mary counters, the calm voice of a person who has already been chosen. Sherlock, in the meantime, can't help but think: John Watson, wearing explosives, with Moriarty speaking out of his throat.

"Are you quite sure? He needs our location. The Wi Fi in your house is shit." John, a mark for a sniper, a firm hand with which to push Sherlock from the roof of a building. "And he has no reason to off anyone, I should think. Unless it's a hobby of his."

Mary had that look sometime, like she pitied him – she took his favourite toy away and now he's all alone with his messy flat and strange eating patterns and social habits. She had liked him, and Sherlock thought that she was genuine, but they both also knew that people who liked Sherlock were the only people that stuck in John's life (he was also not boring, and Mary's life were. Mary, pretending she was far less useful than she actually was, but enough to be impressive for a woman. Mary, watching John placing his revolver in his pocket and knowing she's three times the better marksman than he was, at least).

Point is, she wears that look now – the pitying one, like the one she wore when she had shot him. Not merciful, just sorry. "Oh, honey, are you waiting for these?" She pulls two glass containers, poison capsules included. "But why?"

Sherlock sighs. "This is how this game works."

Mary tilts her head to the side. "But I'm not him, Sherlock."

"You are prettier than the bloody cabby, certainly, but all the same, this is a game that I already played, one that I would have won – "

"No, Sherlock," she corrects slowly, voice soft. "I mean, I'm not him." Then she leans backwards, suddenly looking bored. "Look, we both know you're going to take it, you're bored, and there is a pill in front of you, simple math, I should think." She throws both containers into the air, catches them. "It's okay though, in your free time. I'm not in a hurry."

Sherlock grits his teeth. "I want the gun."

"Really, are you sure?"

"The gun, please."

She idly pulls John's revolver out of her coat pocket, aims it at Sherlock. "Don't you want to call a friend? Maybe reflect back on your life?"

There is really no turning back from here, he feels. No free fall backwards. "The gun."

There's a shot. Naturally, it isn't aimed at Sherlock. Naturally, Mary is quick enough to duck.

"You have his revolver," he bites out.

She sighs from her place at the floor. "Probably stole my gun."

"Aren't you a cute couple."

That earns him a smile. "The cutest."

Sherlock has had enough. He'd often wondered about this, when does an assault isn't worth the gain of elevating boredom anymore? He wondered, because most usually, drugs are – worth it, that is. "Where were we, then?"

"Sorry," she replies.

"Ah, no."

"No, Sherlock," she corrects again, "I mean, sorry." She snatches both containers and buries them back in her pocket. "Wrong day to die."

Sherlock profoundly rolls his eyes. "Well, then maybe you want to be a bit clearer."

She waves her phone at him, a text from John blinking on the lock screen. "Got a better offer." She waves distractedly. "See you around, Sherlock."

There is no body on the floor. For a second there, it doesn't make any sense.

~

It’s quite the simple process. Get your splint on, go do another X-Ray just to check that everything’s indeed in its place, appoint a check-up meeting, four to six weeks and you should be fine, and don’t you dare think about –

Falling in love.

John can count the times that’s happened on one hand. He guesses most people can. It’s not the sort of thing you pass around like anti-cold medicine prescriptions. It’s the sort of thing you cherish with all your heart, even when it doesn’t work out eventually, even when it hurts, even when it was a mistake, because you can’t let it go, you don’t have a choice but to appreciate the slow burn crawling up from your toes to your throat, otherwise you’d just be fighting windmills. It’s the sort of thing that stays with you for life, even when you move on, even when you fall in love again.

He remembers the first time, at the age of fourteen and clueless, not knowing what he felt was what the grown-ups always talked about, because it felt different than what they said it should feel like, easier, careless, he was giddy and and unmistakably _free_. He knows now that’s the kid type. He knows now it’s never as simple as that. He knows now falling in love at fourteen, even though it surely has to count for something, is so very unlike falling in love at twenty-six, and thirty-nine. But he remembers the first time and he wonders how Sherlock had done it. That’s the only trick he actually pulled, making John believe it was nothing. It seems impossible to him, the ever obvious him, that someone can hide that well. But then again, it’s Sherlock, master of disguise. Or maybe John’s just an idiot.

They get back out into the pouring rain, Mycroft’s car awaiting them, and John keeps his hand close to his chest, covered by his coat. Mary opens the door for him and he slides in with some difficulty, leaning his head on the same window he punched. It sustained no damage whatsoever.

The car pulls away from the curb as soon as Mary shuts the door, and they’re off to a place John’s not sure he wants to be in. He’s not actually sure where he _does_ want to be right now. Falling in love with Mary was the obvious step to take, and John thought things were just going right. He thought, after all this time, I’m getting my happy ending. He never thought he was –

Love has a tendency to creep up on you like a disease, slowly taking its place inside your body until one day it bursts out. John himself has a tendency to not catch up with his own heart. He wonders when did Sherlock know, exactly, that that was love, what he felt. When did he have that moment of clarity, and whether it was a happy one. Probably not. Love is a dangerous disadvantage, after all. Human error. What’s going to kill you.

Well, _he_ doesn’t get a moment of clarity, he doesn’t get a dawning realization, he doesn’t even get the slow build-up towards the silent _oh_. He gets straight to the heartbreak, like driving full speed through the highway of lost chances, and crashing into a wasted opportunity wall.

After all this time.

~

“ – and our problem, the final problem –" Mary blinks in and out of existence in front of him, and Sherlock has been here before. He can feel the wind on his skin, the chill on his neck where his scarf doesn't reach. He stills himself – what do normal people have, then? Friends, colleagues, people they like, people they don't like – "Staying alive!" She finishes. "Though that's more your problem than mine, it seems. You just can't manage it, not properly." He's a bit tired of arch enemies, is the thing. They mess up his life. They marry his people.

"Oh, and you're so great at it?" he retorts, more petulantly than he would have liked.

"I have a life growing inside of me, Sherlock."

"Oh, bully for you, we've been through this before, I have been here before, why are we wasting our time."

"He told us," she replies slowly. "Last one to Sherlock Holmes is a sissy."

"Well you're pretty much last."

"Slo – w and stea – dy wins the race," she emphasizes. "You should know. You've done the same."

"Did I? Oh, of course." He rolls his eyes. "Janine."

"The great Sherlock Holmes, falling in love. I read it the papers so it must be true. How did that work out for you?"

"Not great, she's on a bee murdering spree."

She raises her eyebrow. "What a tragedy." She clutches her right hand with her left, two fingers covering her wedding ring. "All I'm saying, Sherlock, is – you think she was easy? You should have seen him, walking around London like a lost child, waiting for the phone to ring. I was just the person he needed."

"Don't be melodramatic, he would have found a creature like you anyway."

"A creature?"

"A woman!" he bites out. "A wife."

She ignores him. "He was like a widow in mourning. Woke up twice a night from night terrors shouting your name. I was understanding, of course, but it was a bit annoying."

"What is the point of this already?" he's almost yelling, right now, tired, his hands freezing, his heart beating wildly. He knows how this ends. Someone is shouting his name, he thinks, in the distance, but he can't spare the glance. "Do you want me to jump?"

"Oh would you? That would make things so much easier for me."

"Or what, Mary? You'll kill him?"

"Did your brother not teach you not to give your arch-enemies ideas? Sherlock, he's already dead. He's been a dead man walking the moment he met me – well, and you. Mostly you. You're like an aneurysm." She sighs. "You know how this works, Sherlock. He dies if you die, he dies if you don't. You are powerless, and you're an idiot, and you should jump to put yourself out of your misery because John Watson is not a miracle worker and when he goes _he is not coming back_."

"I can stop you."

"You really can't, though. You have about two minutes." She lays her palm flat on the swell of her belly. "When he's dying he thinks: please, god, let me live. Do you think you were worth his death?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Do you think he's praying to you now?"

"Probably. I'm more efficient. I proved myself."

"Agh, you're boring when you're in love."

"I was always in love."

"Well then you were always boring. Never could see what he found in you."

Sherlock bites back a laugh. "Who, John? Because his blog describes in great detail – "

"No, not John." She smiles, teeth and everything. "Your other fan." She sighs. "Look, that's your problem – there is no game. No one is keeping score. You can't win by dying. _Boys_ ," she adds, almost to herself.

"So why would I jump?"

"Bo-ring. You've done the math, Sherlock. He dies if you jump, he definitely dies if you live, right now, in fact."

"I can kill y – "

"I'm carrying John Watson's child, Sherlock, we both know you can't do anything to me." She looks at her watch, as if he's wasting her time. "Look, maybe Mycroft will save him. You know, in your memory. Or maybe I'll have a change of heart after the kid is born, want her to grow with a father, all that. I always thought Uma Thurman was too rash, killing Bill."

"What are you talking abou – "

"It's a fifty-fifty chance, Sherlock, or the gun. Don't choose the gun this time. I swear, I will shoot the both of you. I'll make you watch."

It's not actually hard to jump off a building. He has done it before. He remembers how. Like a controlled explosion, almost satisfying – what doesn't kill you teaches you that dying is in fact doable, should you ever want to try.

There is no note this time. You can't leave a note twice. Still, he can hear John Watson screaming his name over the wind.

You don't go away once you die. You're attach to your broken body, to your broken bones, stumbling across the broken stairs of your mind palace. There is no way out of this one, and John Watson is saying you name, over and over, he's my friend, please, John Watson is checking your pulse, John Watson is –

Chastising you. "Fun?" He demands. "There is a person lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis," you say." But I was hoping you'll go deeper."


	2. while he was yet speaking, there came also another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Two tectonic plates moving in different directions create a tremor in earth, and John is the crack in the middle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we would like to give a shoutout to [queerwatson](http://www.queerwatson.tumblr.com) for helping us with our Russian Mob name, and to [katethepotatopirate](http://www.katethepotatopirate.tumblr.com) for helping us with the criminal world! you've both made this whole thing cooler than it was. and again thank our wonderful betas!

It’s a dreary February morning. The snow hadn’t come this year, but the rain definitely had. It’s pouring in continuous showers, tapping on the roof, drizzling down the windows. They have managed the floods, but John’s shoulder aches for the summer. Mary is curled up with a book and a thick blanket, the regular state she’s in since the pregnancy forced her to stay in, and on occasions John will look at her and wonder if she’s the type to shoot the walls, or just people. Today’s this kind of day, this bitter, miserable kind of day. It’s the weather, he tells himself, that makes him hate London these days, and not the absence of –

He doesn’t let himself think his name, though in certain conversations it does come up. He says it, but it feels empty, not right, and his mind goes blank, like there’s nothing else worth thinking about, and that – that is not what he should be doing right now, thinking about him. But then it comes in fits, like a seizure taking over him, _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock._ He stops only after his energy is drained out.

John’s making breakfast, some eggs and beans and toast, no sausages left to fry, he needs to go to Tesco, but he really can’t find it in him to go out. The smell of oil is filling the house, and Mary will get up to open a window in three…two…one…

“God, I’m going to throw up,” she grimaces, and throws the blanket off of her, wobbling to the nearest window. The chilly wind makes John shiver. “Did you do your exercise?” Mary asks, sighs deeply as she falls back into her chair. He’s not sure why she cares, but that thought alone makes him reconsider his approach to his current life.

“Yeah.”

His hand is doing better. Doctor Richardson says that soon enough the recovery will be complete. He can already do most of the stuff he usually does, just not much heavy lifting. But it’s operational.

“Oh, bugger,” Mary groans, and John, automatically panicked by any sign of discomfort shown by his pregnant wife, snaps his head to look at her. She’s trying to reach the blanket on the floor. John’s heart slows back down. “I didn’t think this through.”

He sighs, leaving the eggs to sizzle on the pan, and goes to help Mary. She smiles at him, soft and faintly recognizable as he covers her, and John – he used to imagine these moments, full of domesticity and joy, a fire roaming in the fireplace and Mary with her soft blonde hair and laugh lines looking at him and – It used to make his heart skip a beat. He used to imagine kissing her and biting back a smile. He used to think how in love he’ll feel when he’ll have a home and a wife and a daughter on the way. He didn’t take many things into consideration, in hindsight. Mary’s smile disappears and John’s never showed up. The house is freezing, and the eggs are going to be burnt if he won’t go now.

“Boil the water, if you don’t mind.” Mary buries her nose in her book once again.

John doesn’t bother changing them before he does.

The thing is, he doesn’t hate her, not really. That’s the problem with falling in love, you get attached, and your feelings are distorted, can’t match the proper reaction to what that person did – does to you. John likes to think he’s a reasonable man, which is why he’s here, with Mary, still, instead of –

But how can he be, when he’s here, with Mary, still, instead of –

 

They don’t talk about baby names. Mary says it’s bad luck, John thinks she just doesn’t want him to bring Sherlock up. It’s ridiculous, because he won’t do that, name her after him. It’s ridiculous, because if he would, he’d have to think about his choices every time he’ll look at her. It’s ridiculous, because even if it wasn’t that way, even if Sherlock wouldn’t have been sent away for six months to Russia for letting John live his life, even if he wouldn’t have told him, even if John wouldn’t have been in love (and that, in and of itself, is ridiculous enough without him naming his daughter after Sherlock, because Sherlock had fought for a life that John doesn’t want), he couldn’t have done it. He couldn’t have put that weight on his daughter’s shoulders. Sherlock must have known what his name means to John. But then again, that wasn’t his point at all, wasn’t it?

So they don’t talk about it, because it’s bad luck. There are colour indexes spread all over the house, and a room full of boxes that need to be cleaned and cleared out. John stands there in the dark, sometimes, imagining it bright and warm and quiet when the day comes, and his heart swells, he momentarily regrets everything a little less. She’s not even born yet, but John is here for her, he decides. The moment passes quickly, like an elusive trick of light, and John’s back to waiting. Waiting for the unknown, the unpredictable, for the six months to pass. And then? Who knows. It’s unlikely they’ll ever see each other again, but the improbable had never stopped Sherlock Holmes.

“I miss you,” Mary says one day, out of the blue. They’re eating dinner at a nice steak house, satisfying Mary’s craving for red meat, and John’s…content, for the time being. He doesn’t feel that pressing anger right now. He swallows his bite, and takes his time, considering his words carefully. He wasn’t quick enough for Mary’s liking, apparently, since she goes on: “I know you miss _him_ but that doesn’t mean we can’t – “

“I don’t miss him,” he immediately cuts her off. He can’t have that happening, not now, not ever.

Mary laughs, high-pitched, dismissive. “Honey, that’s fine. I knew what I signed up for when I joined the club.”

John clenches the fork in his hand. “I don’t want to fight,” he says slowly.

“Me neither,” Mary replies, takes a sip from her water, calm, so fucking calm, he doesn’t hate her but he –

“So let’s just not.”

“Is your solution to fighting not talking?”

“I don’t know, what’s yours?” he snaps.

Mary leans back in her chair, crosses her arms over her chest, the swell of her belly visible even under the oversized jumper she’s wearing. John takes a breath, and then another, waits for the attack. He deserves it. Their marriage is failing. They won’t even make it six months. Their daughter is going to be born already torn apart.

Mary closes her eyes. “When you first met me – “ she starts, and John wants to choke on his food from these words alone. Nothing is like when they first met, she can’t talk about that, it’s irrelevant.

“Mary, don’t – “

“ _When you first met me_ ,” she repeats, lip curling up, maybe it’s the memory, maybe it’s the knowledge she’s taking John down, “That second month, you said you can’t believe I stayed. D’you remember?” She opens her eyes, like she needs to see John’s struggle.

“Yes, what does that have to do with any – “

“Because you had a bad temper and an unhealthy obsession with your best friend – “

These were not John’s words, at all. “I thought he was _dead_ – “

“And I was the best thing that could have happened to you.”

These, on the other hand, were. It seems impossible to believe, right now, that he ever thought that, let alone uttered it aloud. But he does remember, these first few months, not understanding why would Mary stay, when all he did was wake up screaming in the middle of the night. It’s funny, how quickly the tables turn, how suddenly. He gets her point. It doesn’t mean he thinks it’s right.

“You were,” he plainly puts.

“And you are.”

She knows. She knows he’s fooling himself when he says he forgave her. She knows he’s here because he doesn’t have a choice, because Sherlock made the choice for him, because –

She knows and yet she’s here. What does that say about them? John honestly can’t tell.

“You should finish that, or you’ll get up to eat in the middle of the night,” he sighs. Mary’s smile turns rueful.

“I’ll get up anyway.”

“I’ll leave the lights on.”

They get home late after the awful traffic, leftovers neatly packed and stored in the fridge, and Mary yawns and says: “Are you coming to bed?”

John wants to laugh, he really does. He’s been sneaking into bed, trying to not wake her up, since he came back to their house. He thinks about lying awake and staring at the ceiling with nothing to do but feel guilty, and shakes his head no.

“Alright,” Mary’s eyes linger on him, and John turns away. “Don’t wake me up. I’ll have plenty of that when the baby comes.”

John chuckles. “I won’t.” He watches her climb the stairs to their room, then takes a seat in front of his computer. He spends a few minutes checking his mail, which is empty save for a couple of notices about appointments with patients, then opens BBC news and skims it, not really registering the words. He scrolls and scrolls and scrolls and then, without really meaning to, types the URL of his blog.

_Wow!!!!!!!!! What a day!!!!!! That was the best wedding ever!!!!!! Sherlock was amazing! Love is amazing! Fluffy clouds and little birds are amazing!!!_

John doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He ends up putting his coat on the going back out.

That’s the first night he spends in Baker Street alone.

~

Obtaining the heroin was ridiculously easy, and considering he's on a suicide watch, it's really quite sad, but MI6 agents never did really know what to do with him – Mycroft Holmes' little brother, the best at their job without any official training, they weren't ever trained to hide things from someone like him, not really (and should they mistreat him, what would Mycroft Holmes think. The horror. Pathetic, how high nepotism actually goes). It's the using that proves to be a problem. His handler, some idiot named Bruce who reads John's blog and probably has "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" tattooed on his arse (there were stranger places, Janine had told him. She was thinking of getting one) had strolled into his little den (improvised, somewhere along Gorky Street – no reason to go any farther), and said: "Ah, no." and shot a blank near Sherlock's head. Sherlock did not drop the syringe. Bruce sighed.

"Don't make me fight you, Sherlock."

"Oh, please do." But he puts the drug down – Bruce will neutralize him if necessary, probably a sleeping dart, and it's not worth it – the headache that follows, waking up from pure oblivion to this. It was a long shot, anyway. They have the tendency to let him stretch his legs, and then – well.

"Now please come with me – "

"Oh for Christ’s sake, I'm going to die. This is a suicide mission. What do you _care_?"

"If you're compromised, it affects all of us, Mister Holmes."

"Yes, but I don't care about any of you, God, just let me get high in peace."

"A sentence never before uttered by an MI6 agent."

"I am not – "

"Yes, yes, so you've been saying." He sighs, offers Sherlock his hand to pull himself up.

Sherlock doesn't take it. His attention is back on the syringe, lying innocently on the floor. Then Bruce takes the syringe away. Bruce is a moron. He's a lackey of Mycroft Holmes and an absolute moron.

"Mister Holmes, surely you understand that after what happened on the plane we can't take the risk that – "

"Boring."

"You could have died."

"Yes, I imagine so."

"We just barely managed to save your skin – "

"Good for you, go ask my brother for a medal."  

Bruce look frustrated. He's too easy. People are too easy. "I will, and I'll get one. For Christ sake, Sherlock, you don't want the state's secretary to reconsider your mission here, do you? Will you please just come with me?"

Sherlock snorts. "You can't threaten me. I'm already out of the country." He can join Irene on the run. They can be… annoyed and queer in each other's company, or whatever it is that people do together while hiding from England.                 

"Your pressure points are well-known, Sherlock, not only to – "

"Yes, but I will kill you just like I killed him, so you're not going to do anything about that, Bruce."

"You can certainly try –"

"I will drag this organization so deep into the ground, Sweden will have better intelligence. Don't turn me into a criminal, I will excel at it. Now let's go already. God." He lifts himself up with some difficulty, feeling worn out, out of touch with himself. Somewhere in London, John must be helping Mary around their flat. He just wanted to get high.             

They walk back to the base in silence.

 

"Your brother wishes to speak to you."

 _Fantastic._ He finds he doesn't have the energy to properly argue in him (and isn't that just sad), so he simply says: "Ah, no."

The agent, a tall, blonde woman that goes by the absurd name "Summer", shrugs, leaves the phone next to him, and walks off, combat boots hammering against the floor. What is it with the people around here and combat boots, anyway.

He stares at the phone.

The phone stares back. It says nothing.

There is something burning at the back of his throat, climbing out like something vile. When he was sixteen some idiot relative had asked Sherlock how he would have liked to die. He said: "Taking Mycroft with me." He did not mean it in a nice, brotherly way. He picks up the phone.

"Hello, brother dear. Finally showing interest now that I'm on my deathbed?" Sherlock's life is a knife that can be twisted in everyone's gut. John and Mycroft are the most affected. He tries to leave John out of it, when he can. Mycroft, on the other hand –

"As I recall," comes the dry reply, "It was never my lack of interest that bothered you."

Sherlock rolls his eyes so extensively that surely it can be heard through the speaker. "Nothing about you bothers me. I have less than six months to live, and you are, thank God, miles and miles away. Was that all? Great. Goodbye then."

"How much less, Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiles. John would have hated that smile. "Well it depends on how much your work pals annoy me."

"I give you two months."

"Thirty-seven days."

"Ambitious, aren't we?" Mycroft says, deadpan.

"Realistic."

"For the living know that they shall die; but the dead know not a thing.' Are you sure this is the right course of action for you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock considers this. "I don't see anyone offering me an alternative," he eventually bites out.

"Oh, and who might do that? Dr. Watson, blogger extraordinaire? What can he possibly do for you right now? You're looking in all the wrong places, as always."

"Looking? – "

" – finding motivation in all the wrong things – "

"Motivation? Motivation for what, I'm a dead man walking – "

"Don't be stupid, you have six months." Mycroft's voice is steadily rising. Sherlock feels slightly less disgusted with the world and his existence in it. "You and I can do in six months more than a regular person can do in a lifetime. Don't get lazy, Sherlock."

"What are you saying?" Mycroft is a liar, is the thing, but he's also slightly and justifiably afraid of Mum, and so –

"If you die at the end of these six months, it's because you were lazy."

Oh. "Is that so."

"Give me a reason, Sherlock." He concludes. "It has to be a good reason. And so you can't go on being stupid."

Sherlock smiles. John would have liked that smile. “Are we above the law, Mycroft? I did kill a man."

"Ah," he makes a noise, like he's contemplating whether he should pretend to care. "The strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must." No, then.

"Aren't you just full of interesting quotes today."

"Don't be weak, Sherlock."

He hangs up.

~

John feels at ease, with his feet bare and his legs stretched, his chair as comfortable as it ever was. Mrs. Hudson was surprised to find him here in the morning, but brought up tea nonetheless. He said he came by to pick up some stuff he left here in the months of separation from Mary, but he’s not sure she believes him. She never believed either of them.

Since the first night here John can’t bring himself to be anywhere else. He does go, often, because he has to, but he can’t...he never dared calling any place but Baker Street ‘home’, always fearing to let go of this cocoon of his, of this haven, of everything that came with it. Moving out only meant a change of address, and there were times he couldn’t bear having his feet on this floor, but it never changed what was in his heart.

It smells the same as it always had. Maybe it’s because Sherlock always liked it dusty, or because it hadn’t been that long since he’d gone, not really. He’d been here less than two months ago, God, it could have gone so much different, they could have –

Or maybe it’s just because the distinct smell of chemicals and dust and tea will never leave the walls of this house.

John spent the first few nights sitting in his chair, walking around the living room and the kitchen. The fridge is completely cleaned. Mycroft probably had the health hazards in it removed, since he clearly remembers chastising Sherlock about it before they left for Christmas. But everything else was left untouched, a memorial of an era, waiting for its throne to return to its home. John runs his fingers along the spines of the books on the shelves, the walls, the back of Sherlock’s chair. The texture is so familiar is leaves his hand tingling.

There are days here he knows he doesn’t remember, normal, uninterrupted days that went by like life always does, leaving an invisible trace behind them. There are days here, special and unique, that are etched into his memory and will always be vividly brought up in his mind when he steps inside. And there are days that he wishes he could go back to, just so he could know what it felt like, because it seems so impossible right now, to have that kind of peace again.

He’s getting nostalgic. Sherlock would scoff. You don’t build your life around days that are gone, and the game is not even over. John should know better than nostalgia. John should know better than whimsical musings over your best friend, who is not even dead this time. It leads to nothing.

Yet here he is, sitting in his chair, his eyes closed, and he thinks…he thinks it could have worked. They could have been great together. They could have been happy. Things could have not gone to shit. Sherlock could have been here, sitting in his own chair, and John would have looked at him and it wouldn’t have hurt.

Sherlock gave this up, for what John thought he wants, and John thinks: _the one time you weren’t unbelievably selfish. The one time I was._

He should really get back to Mary. It’s been too long since he got here. It feels like cheating, is the thing, and it’s…it’s nothing, he just spends time in his old flat, doesn’t he? But it makes him guilty of something. Guilty of wishing. Guilty of imagining. Guilty of not being there while his wife is carrying their child. It’s all real. She can blame him for everything she wants and John wouldn’t deny it. Maybe that’s the problem, he doesn’t want to.

She calls him once a day. The calls are brief, devoid of nearly every emotion. Sometimes she isn’t there when he does come straight from the surgery. Usually she’s already asleep when he comes from Baker Street. On occasions, though, she’ll be there on the sofa with her blanket and her book, and she’ll look up as he steps in, and John would know she knows where he’d been, and John would also know she has no idea what caused that sudden withdrawal in their life, but that she’s smarter than him, and there’s no way she doesn’t see what’s going on.

The only difference between now and before Sherlock told him is that…he wanted it to work, he really did. And now he doesn’t. Which…he’s not sure what’s worse. Pretending just so your family will stick together, or not pretending at all. It doesn’t matter anymore, because he can’t. He can’t do this. He can’t have anybody but Sherlock, and he can’t have Sherlock, and so he sits in his chair, which has been abandoned, and removed, and brought back to its spot, and he nearly stayed here, all those months ago, but he couldn’t do it then, and he can’t do _this_ now, so he sits in the only place he’ll ever call home and he thinks: _Fuck._

John opens his eyes. He blinks slowly in the face of the light coming in from the windows, his head is pounding. Mrs. Hudson is out today, so no one bothered him in his unfulfilling thoughts. The flat is filled with the light noise of traffic, soothing. His shoes lie besides his feet, and his coat hangs on the rack. It’s so normal, yet unnatural in the face of the circumstances. He gets up to stretch. Then, something catches his eye. It pokes out from underneath the sofa, and it’s hard to believe he hadn’t noticed it before. It’s hard to believe it is still there. Two navy blue socks, plain, thin, just lying on the floor. He picks them up. They smell like laundry and a bit of dust, probably fell the last time Mrs. Hudson brought the laundry up and were pushed around until they’ve found their hiding place.

John resists the urge to bury his face in them. It will be truly ludicrous, and not the least disturbing. He holds them, not sure why they make him feel this way, they’re just fucking socks, and in a brave move decides to put them in their place. Sherlock would kill him for that, touching his sock index. But John can’t have them here, it’s…stupid. It is. He knows that. But they’re out of place, and besides, Sherlock had messed around with John’s own closet far too many times for it to not be a conventional move.

He’s just telling himself excuses, he knows that the moment he steps into Sherlock’s room. Because the sight of it makes him go weak in the knees, and the undeniable familiar scent is so strong here, not dispersed like it is in the rest of the house, but condensed and strong and _Sherlock’s_.

He wanted to be here. He wanted to be here since the first night. He wanted to…he hadn’t been inside that many times. Taking care of Sherlock when he was drugged by Irene. Making sure he’s fine after he patched him up. But never without a reason. Never just as a friend, always as the doctor, and never –

It looks the same. Meticulously organized. Walls filled with Sherlock’s interests like there’s a part of him that never quite grew up. John is amazed by how lovely it is. By how peaceful it is. By how empty it makes him feel.

He intended to go straight to the closet but finds himself lingering at the door, taking everything in. This is it, the epitome of what he’ll never have. Of what they’ll never share. He shuts the door behind him, like it’s a secret that needs to be kept close to heart, him being there, and tries to take a step forwards, but fails, instead sliding to the floor and burying his face in his hands, still holding the socks.

He takes a deep breath, then another, and another, but it doesn’t work. He feels the wet spots trickling down his cheeks, and his chest is tight, throat closing up. After Sherlock died he did this in his own room, partially the reason he never went up this time. It feels worse to do it here. He needs to stop. Nobody died. Nothing is written in stone. He has a future. He’s going to have a child. Sherlock will come back, and then who knows. Mary will always be his wife. His lying, murderous, fucking wife. Sherlock had sacrificed himself like a saint and John always thought he was a sinner. John was always stupid. Sherlock was always right. They could have lied in this exact bed in this exact room while this exact sun was coming up and John would have run his fingers down Sherlock’s spine and Sherlock would have hummed that low hum of his and –

He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, sniffs. He shouldn’t imagine them like this. It’s all sorts of wrong. It’s not even the sex he’s thinking about, still not sure if Sherlock cares about these sort of stuff, it’s just…love. He knows now Sherlock would have let him love him. And that’s the part he wants most of all. He never thought about it like that. Not even the first night when he was high on adrenaline and Sherlock was objectively attractive and objectively a convenient imaginative partner and John wanted to get off for the first time in a long while, so he did, thinking about kissing Sherlock after they got back from the restaurant, about his long pale neck and his dexterous fingers and – he really didn’t know what it’d be like, really didn’t know what Sherlock would be like, just ran along with what his turned on mind provided. He thinks the images would be different now, if he’d let himself go there. He thinks they’d be softer, he thinks they’d be better, more realistic, more worthy, less ‘I don’t even know if you’re into this. I don’t even know if _I’m_ into this’ and more ‘Fuck, we’re doing this, fuck’.

But he doesn’t. Because that’ll be too much, wouldn’t it? There’s already no turning back but that will be…a new level of guilt which he can’t allow himself.

But as destiny has it, he was bound to sit on the floor of Sherlock’s room, cheeks still sticky from crying, and see another piece of clothing out of its place. It’s not Sherlock’s size. Light yellow, a colour Sherlock never wore. He instantly knows what it’s doing there and who owns it. He instantly feels hatred and anger and defeat at the same time. He instantly imagines her here, taking it off, while Sherlock sat on the bed and watched, and he can’t stop himself from going there now.

She got to be in here. She got to kiss him. She got to –

Touch him, probably.  Not in the way John always did, friendly, light, examining wounds, examining bruises, professional. She got to – _God._

John hadn’t gotten off since his honeymoon, is the sad truth. Nobody can blame him for the twitch his cock gives to the thought of Janine’s bare skin, her dark hair falling all over Sherlock’s pale skin. Nobody can blame him for the fact he’s definitely, absolutely getting hard to the thought of Sherlock’s neck stretched, his head twisted on the pillow, while Janine’s tongue licks over his bobbing Adam’s apple.

Did they even have sex? The fact it was fake doesn’t make John blood boil any less.

He can see it so vividly, their bodies entwined, Sherlock’s hands on her small, lean back, her muscles moving as she rides him. He can hear it, her high pitched moans and Sherlock’s low growl, can smell the sweat.

_Solve me a murder, Mr. Holmes…_

John’s breath is coming in short, his jeans getting too tight. Did he talk, Sherlock? Did he tell her what he wanted? Did he even know? Was it –

Did she? Did she tell him how beautiful and brilliant and magnificent he is as he shook and fell apart?

And just like that, the scene changes. It’s not Janine on top of Sherlock anymore, it’s John brushing his hair off his forehead and whispering, _I love you_. It’s John pressing a kiss to his temple and whispering, _I want you_. It’s Sherlock’s hands scrambling to get a hold of something on John’s back. It’s Sherlock’s mouth slacked open against his shoulder and his teeth digging in.

“Sher…” he sighs, then bites at the healthy fingers of his right hand, his left one pressing against his cock, socks dropping to the floor, his hips jutting forwards. It’s definitely the sex now. And it’s too late to withhold.

It’s Sherlock’s legs spread wide while John is in between them, hovering over his chest, running his fingers on his scar, saying, _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…_

It’s Sherlock’s hand in his hair and his stomach taut, saying John’s name in the most mesmerizing way, arching his back as John takes him into his mouth.

It’s Sherlock’s hole twitching against John’s tongue, taking it in, Sherlock’s legs trembling besides him. Sherlock’s blunt fingernails scratching his bum. Sherlock’s long fingers gently wrapping around his cock. Sherlock’s voice cracked when he moans. Sherlock’s hair sticking to his face. Sherlock _looking at him like_ –

It’s not one thing, it’s everything at once, everything John can possibly think about, he doesn’t know what he wants, he doesn’t know what to focus on. He works his belt open as quickly as possible, shoves his jeans and pants down, takes himself in a dry hand and doesn’t care about the burn.

It’s quick. He moves his hand in short, sharp motions, breath hitching, Sherlock’s name threatening to slip his lips again, and comes thinking about Sherlock’s neck stretched, head twisted on the pillow, and John’s tongue licking over his bobbing Adam’s apple.

John pants, spasms washing over him. He dirtied his shirt and has nothing to change into. “Bugger,” he curses, bangs his head on the door. He uses Sherlock’s socks to clean up, doesn’t even think about the consequences of that. He’ll wash them, at some point.

He stumbles into the en suite and washes his face, water running over his stubble as he looks in the mirror. John shakes his head and fixes himself up, bangs Sherlock’s door closed behind him when he walks back into the living room.

That was a bad decision. That wasn’t even a decision.

He still feels heavy when he puts his shoes on, slips into his coat. He doesn’t notice his phone buzzing until he searches for the keys to Baker Street.

He has three missed calls from Mary, and, well, the time will explain that. It’s nearly seven, he’s usually home by now. He’s about to call her back when the buzzing starts again, and her name appears on the screen. He picks up.

Mary doesn’t say a thing, but he can hear her breathing, and it’s harsh.

John’s posture immediately stiffens, his heart starts pounding. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his head reeling with possible answers.

“I don’t know,” she says, and it sounds as if she’s been crying. Mary doesn’t have extreme reactions to stuff, usually, didn’t have them before she was pregnant and doesn’t have them now. Hormones are not her thing. John’s head starts spinning.

“Where are you?”

“They – they said they don’t know either.”

She’s panicked. It doesn’t help John calm down.

“Where are you?”

“Hospital. I’ve been – trying to reach you but you didn’t – “

“I know, I’m – I didn’t hear it – Are you – ” he can’t finish the sentence.

“I’m fine. Or so they’ve said.”

John shuts his eyes. He wants to know, but on the other hand, he really doesn’t. He clutches his mobile to his ear.

“The baby?” His voice is weak, weaker than he wants it to be.

“Please, just – just come.”

John drops the phone, dizzy. “John?” he hears Mary’s muffled voice. Baker Street is blurry, the heat rising, and John feels like he’s about to combust. He scrambles to pick the phone up.

“Which hospital?”

~

His name is Emile Vernet, and the MI6 spreads it around like fire, whispers it in the ears of crime rings and Mafias and petty thieves, takes it in vain for anyone who cares to listen. When they're done, he's almost a celebrity again. Such excitement.

He sheds off his coat. He dyes his hair a terrible orange, and refuses to cut it. He walks with a slouch. He practices his French (what works on John Watson will not be enough here, surely), raises his voice one octave higher. He chooses a Glock 17, and thinks about John's revolver, and considers shooting the wall. Not his wall, though, not his life, not his people. Nothing to gain.

He closes his eyes and sees John Watson, opens them and thinks of coke. He thinks – bit not good, except he's past that. He has a mission to think about, and think about, and think about. This is John Watson's kind of thrill, running around, trying not to die. But he's fine. Vernet is fine. He's not even that bored.

Their name is The Red Circle, and they deal mainly in weapons – weapon manufacturing, weapon smuggling, using weapons to make sure they're free to do both. They provide crime rings and terror organizations with the means to wreck havoc, raise panic and chaos, just generally be a bother. They rose like a furry Russian Phoenix from the ashes of one of Moriarty's old networks (come back to London, they say, save the parliament, they say, John Watson had already moved on, they say. _Moved on from what?_ you say. He left unfinished work here. He doesn't give one flying fuck). He's supposed to dismantle them. Why? Because he's the Moriarty guy. Sound logic, well done MI6. He should wreck their security just for the hell of it.

And so now he's sitting in a seedy, useless, Russian bar, pretending to drink seedy, useless Russian Vodka, waiting for a seedy, useless Russian crime ring lackey to come and ask him out on a date. Somewhere in suburban London John Watson is organizing a nursery, half climbing on the walls he's supposed to be painting, thinking Sherlock is having such an _exciting_ time. He never understood alcohol. It dims whatever it is drugs light up. It's nothing more than a restart or a happy pill. It's for idiots. He orders another shot. He waits.

A tap on the shoulder, someone pushes back the chair closest to him but does not sit on it. "Vernet?"

He raises his eyes to find a beefy, blonde guy, staring at him through tiny blue eyes. He has a rash on his collar from allergies. Just got off the train from St. Petersburg. Has a wife, two daughters, a boyfriend. Probably Chlamydia, too.

"Hmm," answers Sherlock.

"People had been talking 'bout you, you know." He says, voice rough. His eyes trail across Sherlock's face, down to his chest, then back up.

"People always talk." He replies. "What do you want?"

What he wants is Sherlock's patented amazing dissolving magic bullets. You just have to see this, kids, coated with Teflon and pierced at the tip, they will immediately dissolve at a body temperature of thirty-six degrees. Works from long distance as well as close range. Revolutionary. You must ask your parents to purchase one.

Biffy Crime Ring Lackey leans in. "Just to talk."

"Not interested. Leave now." Somewhere in London, John is meeting Mike Stamford for a pint, sitting in a stupid Irish pub and talking about football. Work. The wives. Sherlock can feel his boredom almost sipping through space, settling in his gut, keeping him on edge – dangerously close.

"We might be able to make you a nice offer, if your product is as good as people say it is." He continues. People never do leave right after "I don't want to talk." It's one of the most hateful things about them.

"Might you? Fascinating. Still not interested."

He leans even closer. If John was here, his fingers would have tightened around his Browning and he would have taken one step closer, completely blowing his cover. John is not here, however, and so Sherlock's personal space remains unprotected. "I'm afraid my boss was very insistent."

"Not my problem," he says curtly. He thinks, _I told them – last one to Sherlock Holmes is a sissy._

A firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "It should be." John would have been here by now, about two seconds ago, pushing the guy away, saying something moronic, punching him in the face.

John is not here. Sherlock sighs, he pulls away, takes a step back, tilts his face to the side in a manner meant to suggest consideration. Then he punches the guy in the face hard enough to make him fall backwards on the seedy, useless Russian floor, and leaves 

~

John takes a cab to Sutton. It’s an agonizing ride, the seat is uncomfortable, there’s more traffic than usual, and his hand is clutching his phone the whole way through. It hurts his fractured finger. He really doesn’t care.

The call he’s half waiting for doesn’t come ( _you’re too late_ ), and John’s supposed to be breathing thanks to that, but he holds the air tight in his lungs, afraid to let it go in case he’ll never get to breathe again. He texted Mary he’ll be there in half an hour, twenty minutes, fifteen, five, no answer. She was crying. She was panicked. She was everything John feared to hear.

And John wasn’t there when it happened, when something went terribly wrong, couldn’t see, couldn’t help, couldn’t figure it out before it came to this, was locked up in his mind, was focusing on What If’s, on the past, and not on the life that’s about to come. He can’t even think logically, can’t come up with statistics to calm his nerves because he doesn’t know what’s going on. There’s nothing to hold on to. He tries to keep the words out, but they come, like they always do, _I might lose her._

It’s an all too familiar thought, but it does not belong here. It belongs in a place where no man can guarantee you a lifetime and you can’t guarantee that to yourself, in a place where every connection made is sealed with these words, in a place where you don’t make promises and don’t have expectations and every new day is a blessing. Not is civilian life. Not in John’s family.

Then again, Mary didn’t belong in the list of people who had tried to kill Sherlock Holmes either, but here they are. For a time, Sherlock didn’t belong in the _deceased_ file of John’s life, and then he didn’t belong in the _living_ one. Sherlock doesn’t belong on the _murderers_ list and Mary doesn’t belong on the _nurses_ one. And John doesn’t belong on the list of people who have lost everything they’ve got, again, and nothing, nothing, _nothing_ works out quite right in this world. But it’s not about that. It’s about _her_ , and she doesn’t belong anywhere yet, so how can he lose her?

 _Might_ , he thinks, _might_. _You know nothing,_ he tells himself, _she can still be fine._

And Mary saved Sherlock’s life.

The driver drops him off and John throws every single bill he has in his wallet at him and rushes out of the car. He steps into Sutton Hospital like a hurricane, wrecking havoc until he finds Mary’s room. It’s not that the secretaries and nurses and doctors that direct him are not helpful, it’s that nothing can be helpful enough at this point, and if he’ll stop for just one moment, he might crush. He’s aware that he’s shaking with it, the…fear, probably. Is it even fear? He can’t really separate between feelings right now. Awareness never brought him anything good in life, though.

When he walks in, he takes one look at Mary, one look at the nurse standing beside her, and goes straight to the clipboard at the foot of Mary’s bed.

“Doctor Watson?” the nurse asks. She’s trying to sound soothing, but John can hear the edge in her voice, is all too familiar with the tricks medical professionals have for these types of situations. He nods, flips the pages, trying to get past the bureaucracy before –

There’s a hand on his wrist. He jerks, but the hand is firm. It takes the clipboard away, leaving him with nothing. He clenches his left hand. He looks up at Mary, who is silent, her hands on her belly like she’s trying to protect her, watching John carefully with her jaw clenched.

John shifts his eyes away. “What happened?” he asks, his voice low, frighteningly cracked.

“Contractions,” Mary answers. “It’s – It’s contractions.” She takes a deep breath, exhales shakily.

“You’re going into labour?” he breathes out. Premature Labour at twenty-four weeks. Now the statistics come out. He’s turning into a human calculator; Sherlock would be amazed. It takes him five seconds to say: “Tocolytics.”

“We can’t – “

“Delay the labour, give her Steroids,” he’s taking off his coat and rolling his sleeves before he knows what he’s doing, steps around the bed and forces the nurse away, takes her place. “We need twenty-four hours, Mary, we can –  “

“We _can’t_ – “ the nurse tries again, but John is not listening. He’s having none of that. He knows what to do.

“She’s going to be fine. The technology we have now – “

“John – “

“She has a chance to – “

“You’re not my doctor, John – “

“Doctor Watson, please – “

“She’s going to be _fine_ – “

“John!”

He stops, panting. Why is nobody _doing anything_. Is everybody content to let a baby die?

“Mary,” he says, slowly. “You know just as well as me – “

“Shut up. Shut up,” she grits through her teeth. “My water already broke, we can’t do that, none of that, so shut up, don’t be my doctor, be my husband.” Then she grips his bicep in an iron grip and screams, tears stinging her eyes. John grabs her hand, squeezes tight, pants getting harsher. He shuts his eyes, white spots dancing behind his eyelids.

“When?” he manages to ask.

The nurse shifts behind him, rearranging Mary’s pillows.

“Just after we ran the tests,” she answers, Mary still unable to. He doesn’t want to talk to her. He wants somebody who’ll tell him something other than – “Doctor Watson, you should sit down.” She pushes a chair until it touches the back of his knees, and walks to the other side of the bed. “The baby is coming.”

John swallows. It can’t be. It can’t be happening. They can’t let her come out with no chance to survive. It’s not fair. They’re making her lose the game and she haven’t even begun to play.

Mary’s screams die out, and her grip loosens. She throws her head back, sweat glistening on her throat and her forehead, making her hair stick to her face. There are two people he should care about right now.

“Who is your doctor?” he asks when Mary had gathered enough strength to open her eyes.

“He’ll be here any second now, John, please, just – “

“He didn’t notice that – “

“John, I swear to god, shut up, this is happening, there’s nothing to be done.” Her hands fall to her sides. She looks fragile. She looks small. She looks nothing like a woman in labour.

He kicks the chair backwards. It creaks on the floor, the noise not satisfying enough for his need for destruction. The nurse says nothing, just brushes Mary’s hair away from her eyes.

 

There is no known cause for early labour. There are symptoms that put you at a higher risk, and behaviours and environments that do it as well. A woman who carries more than one baby might expect that, but it might never come. A woman who had never given premature birth before might never suspect that it’ll happen, but it will. Diseases and infections and abnormalities exist in many women who had it happen to them, but then, they don’t in others. You can smoke and your baby won’t be fucked, and you can keep the healthiest lifestyle and it will. The truth is that John has no one to blame, not without further examination, but his mind shoots arrows at the hospital and the doctors in it, at the nurses who had an eye on Mary when he hadn’t, at Mary for being a nurse herself and not noticing, before they turn inwards and he thinks: Solved it.

 

They try to talk about the best course of action. Doctor Gold speaks eloquently and simply like John and Mary both might not understand her otherwise, or maybe like John and Mary both are not in a state of mind to grasp what’s going on around them. She’s wrong. She doesn’t know them.

The nurse is named Rebecca, and she had stayed by Mary’s side since Mary arrived. She doesn’t say much, but she glares at John as if she’s weary of him. Well, John is weary of her, too.

Mary holds on to his hand from time to time, and John tries to not back off. He lays a hand on her belly, and he swears he can feel his daughter’s heartbeats, and not only hear them on the monitor. He counts them, levelling his breathing with them.

They listen, have nothing else to do, as everybody explains to them the pros and cons of every step they might want to take.

Mary’s contractions are getting closer to each other, longer, and they need to decide: would you like us to resuscitate?

“Yes,” John would have barked if he had it in him. It comes out as a sigh. He stares at the wall in front of him and his fist clenches and unclenches on his thigh. They will take her to the NICU where she’ll be taken care of almost like she’s still in the womb. They won’t get to see her for long, won’t get to hold her for more than a second, she will be whisked away so they can try and save her life. If there’ll be a life in her to save.

Mary runs a hand through her hair. “I’m not watching my girl dying for a week. She’ll suffer the whole way through.”

John snaps his eyes to her. He stares. She doesn’t look at him. “I’m not letting her die.”

“She doesn’t have much of a chance.”

“You’re not giving her much of a chance.”

“You’re being illogica – “

“I’m being rationa – “

Her face contracts in pain, and she grips him again, but John doesn’t want to ease it. He wants to scream, to shout at everybody around him that, _how can you not see? How can you not care? We can save her. We can save her. We can save her._

 

Mary’s ten centimeters dilated. It’s time. Everybody acts as if this is normal to get her through. John wants to speak, wants to act like them, so his baby girl will be born into something loving and caring and good, but no sound comes out when he opens his mouth. No air in his lungs. His heart blocking his throat.

It’s not a long birthing. It’s a lifetime for him. Mary cries and cries and cries and pushes and pushes and pushes and her body is full of so many chemicals and she’s saying his name, and John says he’s here, and they go on pretending they’re in this together.

He looks down to see a head popping out, a red, bald, round, beautiful head. “Come on,” he murmurs, “Come on.”

Doctor Gold says they’re doing great, nearly there. Mary grits, “Get her out,” and claws at the back of John’s palm. Rebecca’s doing breathing exercises with her. John murmurs, “Come on.”

She’s tiny. So small John can’t believe she’s real, can’t believe she’s not a miniature someone had created because it was too precious not to. But she is real. She is right there, in his arms as they cut the umbilical cord, and John weeps, and holds her, and sways her gently, the room quiet and expectant, but John doesn’t pay it much attention. He’s focused on the most ethereal creature in the universe, holds his breath so she can release hers.

“Come on, come on, it’s okay, come on.”

Silence takes over. It’s as loud as her absent cry.

~

He's bored. It's strikes him as he pulls his coat tighter around himself (not his usual coat, a new one. Something green and… furry) and waits for his Very Important and Crucial Meeting to be interrupted. He's deeply, irrecoverably bored, in a way that settles deep within his chest, seeping slowly into his blood stream. Heroin can probably burn it off – along with the rest of him, but he's not allowed any (like a child – want to play with Dr. Watson, dear? Then no recreational drug use before dinner. Agh), not sure it's strong enough, anyway. There is a numbness like an edema around his lungs that needs to be bled out, another personality inhabiting his body – someone, on his knees, looking around for permission to just _lie down and lose_. The agent who's pretending to buy weapons from him is looking at his watch once in a while, tapping his fingers impatiently on his belt like it's rude of The Red Circle to be delayed to a fake arms deal they have no part in.  

Sherlock sighs. "So, do you suppose they're going to off you or will rendering you unconscious satisfy them?" he asks, deadpan, just to pass the time. He's so bored.

"I think you should shut up and not blow our cover before they even get here," replies the agent calmly. His name might be Greg. Sherlock is not sure. It has been deleted. Someone in the world is named Greg, for sure.

Sherlock stares at him and does nothing.

Greg stares back. "Would you perhaps like a cigarette, Vernet?" He eventually asks. They walk on eggshells around him, still – he's rumoured to be both unstable and unpredictable, and communication is a strange combination of ordering him around while trying not to rouse him. This is stupid, he will get the job done. He will complete this mission, in the sense that he will find the first ticket out of it. He's not a field risk. It's all good.

"I have my own," he states. As if to stress the point, but mostly because he really does want one – skin spread too thin across his bones, his thoughts too loud – he pulls the packet – Sobranie – out of his coat and lights one up. He's been craving one for hours. He just wants this done.

He imagines shooting the wall. He imagines shooting Charles Augustus Magnussen. He imagines shooting the explosives, previously wrapped around John's chest, imagines the noise, imagines the recoil, imagines the water. He breathes the smoke deep into his lungs, and holds it there.

Greg's eyes are fixed on him, still, and Sherlock can see Donovan in him, for a moment there, in the tense lines around his mouth: _freak._

He smiles.   

Then a stern on the intercom tells them: "They're getting closer. Please stop yammering and hold positions," like Sherlock is a sparkling conversation partner that induces endless chatter and it is all his fault. "Put out your cigarette, Vernet," the faceless voice continues to bark. Sherlock sighs, does as he's told. He imagines, for a second, announcing: this is all a ruse, and living, hands spread wide in the air as the first shot hits him, bullet sinking into the small of his back. He stays put, takes a deep breath of useless smoke free air. Vernet too, he thinks, has a brother who'd like him to apply himself.

"Look," he says, with an irritation he doesn't have to fake, Russian falls smoothly from his tongue, "I have been loyal to you, like we discussed. I had other offers, but I gave you exclusivity. Don't try to change the terms of the deal – "

"The price I'm suggesting is fair," mutters Greg. "Nobody else will give you that amount – "

"Don't try to cheat me. You know who I am, it doesn't work." He contemplates this, for a moment, thinks about using his mind to patent a thing that isn't his mind, and supposes it all depends, really, the bullets are a sad excuse of an invention by a man who has no other means of making a living, but then there's Mycroft, who patented England. Sherlock invented his occupation, but really, it was right there, in his shape, in his shoes, and he never entertained the thought of settling for less. This is less.

Greg sighs. "Okay, look, you can't blame a guy from tryin' – "

"Yes, I can, you're wasting my time." He gives Greg his most withering look, the one that makes reporters and young Scotland Yard detectives cry. "Look, I can just leave if you're not – "

"No, no," replies Greg quickly. "Let's just do this."   

It's fucking freezing. They are situated in an abandoned warehouse like a couple of clichés ("Our lives aren't like the movies," John had written down once, then deleted. "Sherlock isn't nearly nice enough, and there's barely any girls."). The windows are broken, and the cold is a close and solid presence, like a wall you keep crashing into. That kind of weather follows you well into summer. It follows you home.

He's about to open his mouth and say: "Glad you're seeing sense." When the door slams open, almost knocked off its hinges, and a frankly sad group of three Russian mobsters barges in.

Sherlock tries not roll his eyes at one of them – ah, it's his old friend from the bar; amazing how the people he has spoken to are always the first volunteers to the task of manhandling him – grabs him by the back of his neck, pressing a gun to his temple and spits out: "Don't move," as if something in Sherlock's situation has suggested he had freedom of movement and plenty of options open to him.

Three of them spread around the room to cover the exits, and the last one marches in to deal with Greg – who he then knocks unconscious by a sharp blow to the head. They don't know who he is, don't want to start a war over this (whatever, he was wearing a bullet proof vest, and was generally very annoying). Next, he turns to Vernet and says: "You can't really say no to us, you see." He smiles. "That little display in the pub. That was rude."   

Sherlock snorts.

"We all thought so," agrees the one standing near the door. He's bald. He has three dogs and a small child and a wife he's beating to a pulp. Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, wishing him out of existence.

"So all this charade," he attempts gesturing around the room, but Idiot from the Bar stops him, "is just to teach me manners?"

The mobster who knocked Greg out shakes his head. "We want a demonstration."

Sherlock can't help but smile. Do they really. "And what if I say no?" He bites out. "I don't sell to just anyone." He takes a deep breath. He's going to bruise where Idiot from Bar is holding him. He just desperately wants to kick him. Hard. "And your behaviour, if I may say so, was not trust inducing."

Idiot from the Bar is tightening his hold in a way that doesn't allow him to breathe, and, Christ, do they have to go through this? Can't they just pull at his hair or something? ("Somebody loves you," Irene had said, "If I had to hit you I'd avoid that face too."). "Then," he mutters against Sherlock's ear, and Sherlock just barely stops himself from elbowing him in the ribs, "we will have to convince you to change your mind."

"We can be very convincing," promises Mobster Near Window No. 3.

Sherlock swallows. "There's no point in killing me, you won't get what you came here for – "

"Don't be stupid –" _ha_ , Sherlock thinks – "It doesn't have to go that far," the hand of his captive goes up to his hair, then, pulling his head backwards. "You need your hands, for example, but surely not your legs."

_Dull._

"And that pretty face, surely you don't need it to work."

Sherlock's face is always pretty when someone threatens its well-being. It's a thing of wonder.

According to Mycroft’s calculations they're going to kill him in the course of six months – but if he doesn't manage his disappearing act, he swears by everything he has, it will not be this guy.

"Okay – " he breathes out, in the end, his voice strangled. "Okay, just – just let me – let me go, and I'll show you, I swear." He coughs. "Come on, I can't breathe –" One, two, three seconds pass, and then he feels the hold on him loosens, gradually, before it's gone.

He stumbles, steadying himself, and embraces the cold to his chest, wraps himself in it. "Christ," he mumbles. His eyes are wild, his hair wild. He's clearly in distress.

"Show us," says the one who knocked Greg out, "What you can do."

"And then?" he asks, his voice hoarse, throat sore.

"Then we decide if we want in," he answers slowly, "If we do, you get to live."

Gosh, what a relief. He feels his lips stretching into a grim smile. "Fine," he bites out.

Three, two, one –

A shot. The mobster near the door falls to the floor, dead. But he can be comforted by the knowledge he was killed by a brand new dissolving bullet, shot – gasp – from a great distance. Terribly exciting. What a time to be alive.

Idiot from the Bar steps away from him. So does the rest of them. It's his show now. "Check the body," he orders. "You know what you'll find." He starts towards the door in long, quick strides. For a second there he feels the absence of his coat, dragging around him.

He thinks of a pool, and another person commanding a sniper. Thinks of a red dot across John's face. Of a roof. He's sick of snipers.

He stops, then, turns around and smiles. It's not a good smile, and John will never see it. "Think up a better offer," he says. "You know where to find me."

He steps over the body on the floor by the entrance. Then he's gone.   

~

John dreams of her. He’s familiar with all sorts of nightmares – ones about losing someone, ones that make you truly believe they are still alive, ones that are just frightening with their accuracy of the moment. Somehow it gets worse when all you have as a memory is the moment of death. He dreams of her, and it’s like a make believe fairytale with the ending of a Greek tragedy. He dreams of her, and wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of her cries. It’s real to his ears, he’s never heard it before, but he knows it’s her. He startles awake and scrambles out of bed before he remembers – there’s no one to take care of. No one to feed, change, or relax back to sleep. No one to watch as the moonlight lands just right on the crib and she’s covered in silvery glow, small and fragile like she was when her fingers wrapped around John’s fingers and she fought her own lungs. They’ve failed her.

He always crawls back to an empty bed. He lives in an empty house. Mary was turned into a ghost the moment they’ve stepped inside after returning from the hospital. John’s throat still echoed his desperate _do something, she’s my daughter, she can’t die,_ and Mary haven’t spoken a word since she said: _Let go, John, you need to let go_ as they pried her out of his arms. She is pale and her belly can make you believe there are still life inside of her, but it’s a lie. She walks around with the blanket they gave them at the hospital and John doesn’t know how to approach her, doesn’t know if he really wants to or just feels a moral obligation to act like a supporting husband. All he wants is his baby girl. He doesn’t care about the rest of what was meant to be. Mary and him were failing each other way before this moment in time. Mary and him were failing her way before she died, and maybe, because of that, she didn’t have a chance.

They’ve spent the night at the hospital filling forms declaring they’re donating her body to science, staring at the blank line where her name was supposed to go, Mary’s hand shaking with the pen clutched between her fingers, John thinking, _Sherlock is actually a girl’s name._ He wouldn’t, but maybe that’s the poetic beauty of it all. Two tectonic plates moving in different directions create a tremor in earth, and John is the crack in the middle. He feels like it. Torn apart, deeply hollow, a pit that will take anyone down. They’ve left the line blank, couldn’t name a gravestone, didn’t have it in them to argue over one last thing. It fits, at least in the sense that in his mind, her place is blank too. Still waiting for her with open arms, not yet resigned to the vacuum that will come instead.

He lies awake in the darkness, counting seconds until the sunrise, grieving the fairytale about Hat-Man and Robin, and the princess whose story was never told.

 

The idea of writing a post about it on his blog is strangely suffocating, but it floats around his mind for a few days in early March. People keep asking questions, and it will be such an easy way to shut them up. If he could give them answers he would, but he has none. Telling the story was inevitable. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t regret it with every fibre of his being, that moment he put a stump on the letter that said she’s gone. Worse than coming back home with nothing but a blanket and a heavy heart was reliving it each time he had to say: _There’ll be no baby._

(Mycroft had sent flowers three days after they got home, and John didn’t even wonder how he knew, just threw them in the bin. There was no grave to put them on, so he deposited them with the only things left of her – him and Mary, like they are walking, talking memorials. He didn’t even let Mary see them before they were gone. He didn’t thank Mycroft, as well. He got another bouquet shortly after, and sent it back with a note that read: _Stop._

Harry called. John didn’t pick up. She called again three times in quick succession, then stopped. It took him a week to call her back. She cried, and cried, and cried, and all John wanted to say was: Isn’t it exactly why you get drunk? But he didn’t, he just listened as Harry struggled to tell him that she loves him, and said it flatly back. He wasn’t angry. The anger was already gone.

People texted and emailed and messaged him in every possible way, and back then John wanted to shut the world off. To pause. He couldn’t handle the way they were just _moving_ , fast, like it was really happening. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t.)

His blog seems to be the only crossing point of every event in his life. Except for her. She was never mentioned. Never talked about. For some people, she never existed to begin with. On very dark days, John wishes he could be as ignorant as them. On others, he just wishes to show them, that glimpse of her he got, just to make them feel it, that unfairness of it all, so all the world will know – you can’t do that. You can’t give someone a gift only to take it away. You can’t let people mourn before they had the chance for joy.

So he entertains it, the idea of a post. Even thinks about what it’ll look like on his blog. It’s like playing Russian Roulette while having suicidal thoughts. You’re not sure if you’d rather take the bullet or not.

He sees one comment, when he imagines the words he’ll write down. One comment that simply reads: _I’m coming home._

Then he blocks the comments on the post, and deletes it from his mind.

~

Sherlock is such a smashing success that if Moriary was alive, he'd try to recruit him. The bullets sell well – extremely well, and Sherlock can't help but quirk a smile at the fact. The system does not like him, but it most certainly would rather have him in than out, and the more often he manages to cook up a reminder, the better ("Well," Special Agent Carmichael had told him, "What can you make that might draw their attention to you?" And Sherlock had smiled. Mycroft did not.). The leader's name is Petrovich, a fact that makes Bruce snicker ("Come on, haven't you read Crime and Punishment? This is great."), and gosh, he's just so very pleased, and Sherlock is so very lucky he had found him because he's gonna make Sherlock a star, put his name on billboards, write it in lights. Just, you know, secret billboards and secret lights, ones meant for Eastern European criminals. Who are idiots.

Truth is, he rises up so fast it's almost a liability, too much importance with too little trust, he's lucky someone hadn't put his mind to end Sherlock's five minutes of fame in the back of an ally. It is what it is. Once, when Bruce was especially chatty and Sherlock had wanted to end it, he said: "If I die here, will you make it seem like an overdose even if it weren't? It would drive Mycroft mad." Bruce's laugh was shaky, and the next ten minutes were spent in blissful silence.

Once, Petrovich had summoned him for a chat. Because suddenly every moron has something to say to him. Could be more of a moron, though, as the first thing he says when Sherlock walks in is: "Vernet, how nice to finally meet you. You look bored." Sherlock's boredom is on display constantly. People assume that this is just the way he is – the sharp edges of his mouth and the blank look in his eyes, the way his words spill out like shards of glass, like he couldn't be bothered. It's in the colour of his skin, in the air he breaths out, in his bullets, that tear their way through people's insides and then leave. 

Sherlock shakes his hand. He smiles. "Oh, not at all. It's been quiet, is all. Success is always overly peaceful, isn't it?" He briefly closes his eyes. Briefly, he's at Baker Street, shooting at the wall, checking and rechecking his mobile, waiting for a murder. Then he's back here.

Petrovich isn't buying it. "No," he says simply, unimpressed. "That's a stupid thing to say."

Sherlock raises both his eyebrows, checks, briefly, to make sure this is not Mycroft Holmes in disguise.

"Your merchandise sell extremely well." Petrovich continues. "We're very happy with you."

"Are you, now."

"Yes."

"And yet I shouldn't feel at ease?"

Petrovich shrugs. "Your feelings are of no interest to me, but I wouldn't advise it." Then he smiles, a friendly smile, a 'look, I didn't get into this smuggling and murdering business to make enemies' smile that makes Sherlock roll his eyes, internally. "We couldn't help but wonder what else you can do."

Sherlock thinks about that. "We?" he says, eventually.

Petrovich sighs. "Can't you just take things at face value? This conversation is very annoying."

Sherlock tilts his head to the side. "You're sleeping with your second in command."

Petrovich laughs out loud. Sherlock dislikes him. "I would never," he announces, like it's the greatest joke in the world. "Illegal, you know."

"Embarrassing, mostly. He's very short."

"He makes up for it," Petrovich retorts. And then, "You can't even imagine all the ways in which I will kill you if you tell. You, and whoever it is you have in the world, and whoever it is who will hear about it, and his children."

"Doesn't seem like a big talker."

"He has inner wisdom."

"Smarter than he looks?"

"Pretty damn smart."

Sherlock sighs. He should've known. It didn't even take any amount of observation to find that one out. He saw them making out in the basement. "I can achieve all sorts of things." He states, suddenly. "What will make you happy?"

"A society that accepts those who were born different."

Sherlock waits.

"Yeah, just kidding. I made you a list."

Sherlock takes the list. He finds himself thinking that at least one of them should die before it's all over.

 

He doesn't resist when someone passes him a phone and says: "From England." Sherlock's world is quiet, blurry around the edges, and he finds that if he marches straight into the mist everything will eventually pass. There are no sharp corners of conversation he can't have and people he wishes away from him. Resistance, in itself, is boring. There is no point.  

"Brother dear," he announces, briefly closes his eyes, then opens them. He wondered, once, younger and under the influence, what would happen if he killed Mycroft. He was pretty sure Mycroft will find a way to kill him back. That like a Pharaoh, he'll make a list of precious, expensive items to take with him to the grave. Like perhaps London.

"Ah, Sherlock, so nice to hear from you. Mummy sends her love."

"Does she?" he inquires.   

"She always does," Mycroft replies, like the need to repeat expressions of affection is beyond him. It's beyond Sherlock, too, probably. It's John that had said: "People want to be reminded that you care, you know." And Sherlock had replied: "I simply deduce it. People are morons." So that was that. 

"And that's why you chose to bother me at this time?"

"Is it not enough?"

Sherlock raises one orange eyebrow.

"I wanted a progress report." Comes a replay, eventually. Mycroft's voice is impatient, like the world (like Sherlock, and England, and their damn dog) isn't keeping up with him.

"That's what your lackeys are for. It was nice talking to you – "

"So what is it now, about four months?" Mycroft cuts him off. "Tik Tok."

Sherlock snorts. "I have plenty of time."

"Really?"

"Ages." About seven weeks, he thinks, until they catch up to him. Eight if he's lucky. His brain won't be of any use beyond that point, he'd need a miracle, and no one is coming for him this time. His coat will probably be donated to a fucking museum just to spite him. John will have a fit. Like this call, just to taunt him, to press him, as if Sherlock doesn't know his odds, isn't aware of the stakes, as if he hadn't engineered a dangerous weapon and inflicted it upon the world just to get here, as if –

They can't donate his coat anywhere, he had almost forgotten, nobody is supposed to know that he died, and maybe John would have fought for him, but John would have a little girl to – oh.

So that's why. Mycroft probably sees it as a kindness. Sherlock sees it as meddling. He's so incredibly angry that for a minute there he almost doesn't ask.  "Four months," he repeats, his voice low. "Was she born yet?" Stupid question, she must have been, for Mycroft to think there's a reason to gauge him. But he doesn't want to pre-assume her existence, a person that John Watson created squeezed into a sparring match between two brothers. He would have been her Godfather, probably. Reckons it'll be Lestrade now he's gone. He's a moron. He will teach her all the wrong things. 

Mycroft clears his throat, like he's about to announce World War III. Like impending doom.

"Is it Mary or the baby?" he carefully asks. Then: "Not Mary, you wouldn't have told me, she's the reason I'm here to begin with, so it must be –" he stops, breathes in.

"Premature labour," Mycroft affirms quietly, in the same voice he'll use to tell their mum that Sherlock isn't coming home. "You know the odds."

Sherlock nods. Breathes in. He sees John, briefly, cradling her small head with the palm of his hands. Sherlock was the one to foresee her existence. Sherlock's prophecies are ones of rage.

Breathe in, breathe in, breathe in – 

There is an earth shattering sound right then, and Sherlock finds himself startled, just barely stopping himself from wildly looking around.

"What was that noise?" asks Mycroft. Now that the call has served its purpose, he sounds almost bored.

"Shut up," Sherlock tells him. "Or I'll shoot you next."

Mycroft sighs. "Isn't it funny, how one's uncontained rage can't help but crush against a wall? Can't you find something useful to do with it?"

"I didn't shoot a wall." He breathes out, finally. Part of him is tempted to access John's blog. The other part wants to tear the entire internet down with his fingers. He's afraid that if he gains access to a computer, the second part will win. "I shot a bulletproof door."

"Of course you did." A beat. Then – "Don't you want to know how he's doing?" Mycroft's tone is almost gentle. If he was here, Sherlock really would have shot him next. Not in any place lethal. Maybe in the foot.

Breathe in – the bullet, when it recoiled, must have zigged right next to him. He doesn't bother to look for it. He's still alive. The bullet is somewhere. This is good enough –

Breathe out.  He drops the Glock to the floor. He had asked for a Browning, anyway. "I know how he's doing. I don't need you to tell me how he's doing."

"I really don't think you do, Sherlock."

Or he could shoot him in the balls. "I really don't care what you think, brother."

Mycroft sighs, his frustration palpable. Good. "So be it." A silence, then. Sherlock is about to hang up when Mycroft says: "I give you about seven weeks. Eight, at the most. If you're lucky."

"You think luck has anything to do with it?" Sherlock bites out.

"Wait longer than seven weeks and you'd require a miracle."

Like the miracle of birth. Like a baby, born three months ahead of time. "Bet I can last nine if I make them that Gunpowder."

"Make them that Gunpowder and I'll have you killed myself."

Sherlock snorts. "Please. You know if you'll kill me, I'll tell Mum."

"You know, if you single handedly start a civil war I'll tell dad."

"It won't work," he mutters. "Mum will find it funny."

He hangs up before Mycroft can reply. He closes and then opens his eyes. He wonders if John would have wanted to hear from him, right at that moment ("It was ages ago, why would she still be upset."), if his presence is a comforting one ("Bit not good."). It doesn't matter – he can't be there. John is left in the hands of Mary now, no Sherlock and no little girl named Sherlock, no sign of three. Just bad luck. He sits down on the floor, leans his head against the wall, closes his eyes once more. In his head, he's half way through the process of cooking Crystal Meth. He never knew her – she was not a person yet. Sherlock is not one to mourn a possibility. But there's a memory, the wedding, the expression on John's face – John's family name transplanted into another person like a kidney or a heart, like the world moving forward. He takes a deep breath. Restarts. He's mentally making that Gunpowder.

~

 

He runs into Molly at Tesco’s.  She doesn’t notice him at first, walking around with her trolley, looking at all sorts of cereals, head down. John’s been looking at diapers a moment before, and now he feels ashamed. Like if someone he knows might have caught him doing that, it would make him face the reality of his stupidity, of his self remorse, and they in return will tut and tell him he needs to stop. But she didn’t catch him, and so there’s no reason to fear. It’s like keeping secrets is all he does these days – how much he still misses her (because people doesn’t want to hear that, they want to hear you’re fine, as fine as can be), how big is the void (because people will not understand, and he doesn’t have these kind of conversations with the only person who does), how all he wants is not to find comfort in his wife, but for Sherlock to be here, so he can –  He doesn’t even know why, Sherlock will have nothing to say just like the rest of them. Sherlock will not be able to sympathize just like the rest of them. Sherlock will stand there, tall and looming over the city, and it won’t touch him like it touches John, probably, but the thing is – the thing is two losses are bigger than one. He wants to have Sherlock here because that will be the only thing that isn’t fucked up.

John doesn’t exactly avoid Molly, but he doesn’t actively seek out contact. He looks at her then looks away, at the different types of teas stacked on the rack, categorizing them into: Sherlock’s taste, Mary’s taste, and irrelevant, and stays right where she can see him. It’s not that it’ll be nice to talk to her, it’s that she doesn’t deserve John running off.

“John?” comes her gentle voice.

He turns around. “Molly,” he tries to smile, but his muscles have forgotten how painful it is to fake one. He hadn’t bothered for a while, wasn’t in enough direct contact with others to do that.

“It’s – It’s so funny seeing you here, I was just thinking the other day, we haven’t seen each other since – well, since you brought Sherlock to – well – and it’s – anyway, how’s everything? Life’s treating you well?” she has a faint smile on her lips, and she’s fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, trying to maintain eye contact but failing. John’s grateful for her lack of social skills, since the idea of someone looking into his eyes is nauseating at the moment. But he still has to give an answer. He can lie, or he can tell the truth, it always comes down to that. The thing is that people never want to hear the full disclosure when they ask how are you, they want to hear one simple word, and that one simple word cannot be “crap”, because that will raise more questions, and they have other things on their minds. When you say you’re fine it doesn’t have to be real, it’s just a way to move the conversations forward. With Molly, though, you can never know whether she’s truly interested or just having a very awkward small talk. She’s that kind of girl, working in the morgue, looking out for people’s stories.

“Fine,” he ends up saying, clears his throat, “Yeah.”

Molly nods, like it’s a kneejerk reaction. “You’ve been silent on the blog and that’s the only way I ever catch up with you and Sherlock anymore, which I think is sad, but, you know, we’ve just – You’re probably busy with all the baby stuff.“

She looks down.

He looks at her and he sees the girl who didn’t get a chance. He nods back, unable to speak, jaw clenched. Molly’s smile trembles at the edges.

“You – you don’t look so fine,” she stammers, then bites at her lower lip. John wonders what exactly it is she’s talking about. The dark circles under his eyes? The stubble that’s gone grey at the tips? The torn up skin around his fingernails? Who knows. Maybe it’s the – oh, there it is – spasm of his hand. Sherlock would have deduced exactly what went wrong from that alone, John wouldn’t need to tell him a single word. “Sorry if I’m…crossing any boundaries but…I know Sherlock’s gone on some super secret mission for Mycroft and all that and – and if you need anything – “ she takes a deep breath – “We’re all here. Any help, with…whatever you need.” She looks relieved to finish what she started, like she didn’t think she’d make it.

We. The Crew. The We All Put Up with Sherlock team. What do they have in common when that’s taken out of the equation and all that’s left is a headache?

“Thanks,” he manages. “That’s – that’s nice of you. I’m – I’m really fine.”

Molly looks sceptical, but what she says is: “Well, you have Mary. I guess you don’t need anything else, eh?”

John grits his teeth, tries to laugh at the joke but fails miserably. Molly goes on.

“When is she due, anyway?”

She probably thinks she’s taking his mind off whatever’s wrong. She probably thinks she’s making him see everything that’s right. Whenever something’s bad in John’s life, everyone assumes it has to do with Sherlock. They’re only half wrong, because, as it is, there’s only one crux for measurement in John’s life.

John can still lie. Can let her find out in a horribly backwards way like a blog post. Can walk away from her and make her think that there’s a baby coming, a baby she will get to see, probably, and play with, and hold, because, he thinks, Molly would have been great with her. She would have been gentle and loving, and smile at her like she’s the sun, ‘cause when you see the dead every day at work, the living become immeasurably important to you, and that’s the kind of person Molly is – in love with a man who will never love her back, but infinitely caring. And John has the power to crush her, John has the power to brighten her face, then make them fall. John has the power to do that with the people around him now, give them hope and take it away, make them believe the world is a beautiful place, then darken it further than it ever was. All he needs to do is lie, is not let the pain show, is revel in the terrible emptiness in his chest, and then they will know exactly how losing her felt.

But he’s not cruel, no, he can’t be. He’s just sad, isn’t he? Not pathetically vengeful. No mind games with the people around him will bring her back, so what does it matter, anyway? He can say she’s due in April, but the living baby will never come.

John looks down. He finds himself laughing tersely. “The truth is,” he says, takes a deep breath, shakes his head. “The truth is we lost the baby. What do you know, huh? Premature birth, died in my arms, her lungs weren’t strong enough. So, um, there you have it, your answer.”

Silence. John feels his throat closing up, his knees wobbling, can’t keep his eyes open, but when he shuts them, he sees her tiny form all wrapped up in his callous arms. Molly gasps quietly, not out of surprise, but out of lack of words, and when John finally does manage to look up, her eyes are watery and her smile is gone and her face is – she never pitied him. She’s probably the only person who had never pitied him, probably the only person who had never pitied Sherlock. So no, it isn’t pity, it’s – it’s love. That’s what Molly does – She loves and loves and loves and right now John had evoked the ghastliest kind of love; heartbreak.

“I’m – I’m so sorry John,” the words fall out of her mouth fast, and she reaches out to lay a hand on his shoulder but rethinks it and takes it back. She doesn’t know what to do. She’s scrambling for comfort, but there is none. “Oh God. I’m sorry I brought it up, I – Are you – No, you’re not alright, what a stupid question. I’m so sorry. This isn’t – You don’t deserve it. You – both of you. I’m so sorry.”

John swallows around the lump in his throat. He knows he doesn’t deserve this, nobody does, it’s not something he needs to hear to feel better about himself, it’s just something that he keeps wondering about – did they do something so wrong it resulted in a death of someone who did nothing, at all, not even breathe? Because if someone up there is playing this sort of game, he wants no part in this world. But there will be no answer to that question, like there will be no answer to so many other questions he has about her. John grips the handle of his trolley.

“Not – It’s not your fault. Yeah. You – “ his voice cracks, he’s about to lose it in the middle of Tesco’s. That hasn’t happened in a while. “You’re a very kind person, Molly, I’m sorry I had to – Yeah. Um,” he looks around, looks at his watch, runs a hand through his hair. He can’t bear to be around people who know for too long. “I better go, Mary probably – Yeah, alright.” He tries to level his breathing, tries very very hard. “Give my regards to the Yarders if you see them. It was…nice seeing you.”

“Yeah, you too, I’m – I’m sorry John. I hope you’ll get better news in life.”

John nods, sends her one last forced smile, and pushes his trolley towards the end of the aisle. He feels her eyes burning holes in his back, but forces himself to not turn around.

 

Greg Lestrade knocks on his door two weeks later. Mary went out about two hours ago, and John thought it was her coming back with no key, or too lazy to get her key out, so went to the door expecting nothing but the routine of failed communication they have, and was surprised to find the silver haired man there.

“You don’t answer your phone anymore,” Greg says, and waits for an invitation to come in. John steps aside and lets him, if only out of sheer shock. “Which,” Lestrade continues, “I’ve gotten rather used to in the two years he was dead. You know, his type of dead, at least. Missed him, missed you around, but gotten used to it eventually.” He shakes his head, takes a breath, “My point is,” Lestrade turns to him, looks around at the interiors, then: “Nice place, by the way, but my point is – I know what you do when something’s wrong, and Molly said you might need someone – didn’t say why, but Molly never lies – and you didn’t answer your goddamn phone, so, John, we’re going to talk.”

John’s still trying to grasp what’s going on, which is probably the only reason he’s not lashing at Lestrade’s throat for forcing him into a corner about this. He blinks. Lestrade sighs.

“Is this about Sherlock? Because I swear to God, I will drag the bastard back here by the shirt collar if it means you’ll pick up your phone again.” Lestrade crosses his arms.

John clears his throat. “Do you – do you want a cuppa?”

“Sure, it’ll be nice.” Lestrade stretches. “Can I take a seat? My back is killing me lately.”

John shrugs. “Take your coat off, if you want.”

They end up at the kitchen table with a pot and two cups, Lestrade looks pointedly at John, waits for him to open his mouth. When that doesn’t happen, he says: “It’s not about Sherlock.”

“How do you know?”

“’Cause you don’t have trouble talking about how much of an arse he is.”

Right. He thinks Sherlock chose to go. He thinks Sherlock got bored.

“No, no, I don’t,” he nods, sips his tea. It’s true. If John can talk about one thing in this life, it’s Sherlock. Whether he’s being an arse or – or –

“Then what’s going on? Are you and Mary alright?”

John wonders briefly why does nobody assume what happened, why does everybody think the baby must be fine. It’s such a logical assumption. A father to be is acting strange, yet the problem must lie somewhere that isn’t his baby? What a weird world they live in. Maybe Sherlock is right and nobody ever observes, they rather stay blind.

John lays the cup back in its saucer with a shaky hand. Lestrade furrows his eyebrows.

“Look, maybe you don’t want to tell me, but you – there’s clearly something deeper going on here and, well, I’m worried, to put it plain and simple. To be honest with you, John, being alone will not make everything better, it will make it worse. So I don’t care if it is Mary, or not, or if it is Sherlock, or not, I’m going to sit here with you and – we’ll just drink our tea for now.” As if to make a point, he sips his tea very loudly.

John looks up. Lestrade is…something different than the rest of the people populating this world. He doesn’t care about the reason you’re hurt he cares about the fact that you’re hurt and that’s…relieving, for John. Sherlock picks his people carefully, and Lestrade could not be more worthy.

John sighs. “Alright,” he says. Lestrade smiles at him like he’s not used to winning in these sort of arguments.

“Good. Now, if you’re not going to talk, then I might as well…”

And he starts to ramble. About work (“Honestly, whatever Sherlock’s doing for Mycroft can’t be as fun as the burglary we’ve dealt with last month…”), life (My doctor says I should cut back on caffeine, but I figured, you wouldn’t mind giving me an opinion I’d like better wouldn’t you?), dating Molly (“Excuse me, you’re _what?_ ” “Dating, yes, why is everyone so shocked?” “Maybe – I mean, maybe ‘cause – “ “Oi, save it, Watson, Tom wasn’t half the man I am.” “I wasn’t – “ “Save the rest of it as well, we’re pretty much content.” “I’m – I’m glad.”).

“Look,” Lestrade says finally, leaning forward on his elbows, “I’m not supposed to, but I brought some case files, all solved and sorted, but it always helped with Sherlock in his really rough times, and I figured, you and him, birds of a feather…”

John laughs, brief and pained, and then there’s a sob climbing out of his throat, and he’s talking, uncontrollable, not calculated and measured carefully like it always is these days, but raw and real and true, like he’s finally letting it be out there as it is. It wasn’t a secret, it couldn’t have been, but it was concealed and –

“I lost her. We lost her. My baby girl. Our – our daughter. I held her and she – she tried so hard, she really did, my little girl, her lungs just – they wouldn’t work, not properly, they couldn’t do anything and I held her and she – she was gone, she was just – dead. She was dead. She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s – ”

He’s openly crying. He’d done that so many times alone but not in front of people, not in front of Mary and not in front of the doctors who took her away from him and not in front of anybody, and there’s a part of him that screams at him to stop, to control himself, but he can’t, and he doesn’t care, he just wants to – maybe it’ll be better if he’ll just –

“Fuck,” Lestrade curses, “Fuck.”

He’s by John’s side in an instant, not hugging him, but hovering over him as John’s face are buried in his palms, saying, “John, fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry mate, fuck, this is bullshit, fuck.”

“Bullshit,” John snorts between sobs, “That’s one way to put it.”

“It is, it’s – fucked up. You of all people, God, I’m sorry.”

“It’s – “ John takes a breath, “It’s – “

“Not fine. Don’t say it’s fine.”

“No, no, it’s not,” he shakes his head furiously, pressing the heel of his palms against his eyes, trying to stop himself from screaming but –

“Come on, it’s alright, let it out.” Lestrade puts a hand on his shoulder.

So John does. He’s wailing, banging his fist on the table, shaking with it. “Fuck,” he screams, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, she was – the most – beautiful – thing – I’ve ever – seen – she wasn’t supposed – to be – dead – she wasn’t – fuck – “

“Yeah, come on,” Lestrade rubs his shoulder, “I’m here.”

“GOD! It’s not fair, it’s not fucking fair, why is it happening, she was – she was supposed to be alright – there was nothing wrong – in any fucking test – she was – beautiful – she was – so small – she didn’t – fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Lestrade’s voice is weak as John’s is loud when he says, “I’m so sorry, mate. I’m so sorry.”

“We did everything right, I stayed, we were – careful – we were – “

“It’s not your fault.”

“Then whose is it?” John’s throat cracks with the force of it. “Who in their right mind decided my baby girl wasn’t worth this world?”

Lestrade takes a shaky breath, grips John’s shoulder in an iron grip. John’s body is a constant undulating wave, he can’t stop the tremors, can’t stop crying.

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“I was at Baker Street when she called – “

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“I was – “

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“Thinking of Sherlock and – “

He doesn’t even know what he’s saying.

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“I wasn’t _there_ – “

“John, you can’t blame yourself.”

“I know!”

“Then stop. Come on,” Lestrade massages his sore muscle. “Let’s – let’s go out. I’ll buy you a drink. I’ll tell you about that time I solved a case before Sherlock did. We’ll have some fun. Come on.”

John inhales, exhales, inhales, exhales…

“Fun…”

“Yeah, well…”

He straightens himself, wipes the tears, “Yeah,” clears his throat, it hurts, “Alright.”

“Wash your face, tell Mary you’ll be out late.”

John nearly laughs.

“I’ll clean myself up.”

Lestrade looks at him with soft eyes, smacks his back gently. “Yeah, a lady’s man can’t go out covered in snot.”

John does laugh. He gets up, a little bit wobbly, but it’s manageable. He sniffs, runs a hand through his hair, looks around. “Well. Thanks for putting up with that.”

“Don’t mention it,” Lestrade winks.

John’s never been more grateful in his life.

Fifteen minutes later, they’re sitting in a local pub, and Lestrade lets John pretend for all he wants.

 

Mary’s barely home these days. She took a week to recover, but since then she’s nearly always out, like she can’t look at John, or can’t stand the silence, or doesn’t care about either of those. Losing a baby tears most marriages apart. Not this one. They were doomed way before she was.

It’s not that John minds her absence, it’s that it’s weird –  to not fight all the time, to not have her huff whenever he’s going out, to not look at Mary sitting in her chair with her book and her blanket and wish he was somewhere else. He wishes that all the time, but it has nothing to do with Mary this time, and that’s... weird. They deal with the loss separately like they’ve dealt with so many things before, but John – well, it’s pathetic, but he preferred being angry with himself for forgiving Mary and coming back, and not –

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, he supposes. One would prefer the frying pan, wouldn’t he?

April brings with it warmth that doesn’t satisfy the coldness within John and blooming flowers that reminds him that everything dies, everything has an expiration date no matter its life span. It brings what every month so far had brought – nothingness – and the clear skies are nothing but bright blue that hurts his eyes. The lovely spring, the change of season, they do nothing. Time is meaningless. The wound is still fresh.

It also brings with it what could have been. She could have been born today, they could have come home the three of them exhausted but happy, the nursery could have been painted and warm, the house full of livelihood, the perfect picturesque home, maybe John would have called it that, if she’d been here. He certainly would have had a reason to not hate it. He certainly would have felt more complete.

John despises this feeling of wistfulness to what never was more than he despises the feeling of anguish he carries with him through the days, hates missing these few precious moments he had with her because they weren’t as real as they should have been.

He’s back at the surgery now. Mary is not. John tells them she needs more time and they accept it with no protest, looking at him as if asking, _are you sure you don’t?_ They pity him. They do everything they can to not assign him any patients that has any remote thing to do with babies and pretend it’s a coincidence. They don’t mention it, ever, and they look as if they’re scared John will. He wouldn’t. Not with these kind of people.

Harry texts and calls and texts and John ignores her until she chastises him in his voicemail about withdrawal from life and all that, like he’s the alcoholic in this family. He tells her his self destruction methods are subtler than that. She laughs, and says they’re not. They stay silent, then hang up.

Lestrade calls once a week, asking if John needs something, asking if John wants to meet up, and sometimes John will say he does, most of the times he’ll say he doesn’t, and Lestrade accepts any answer he's got. Which is why he’s the only person John can bear being around.

Today he’d gotten back from work to find Mary sleeping on the couch with the blanket from the hospital clutched in her hands. She didn’t even stir as he shut the door. He didn’t need to double check the calendar to know.

John feels his guts turning. He was so caught up with work today he hadn’t payed much attention to the date, it didn’t matter nowadays anyway, with nothing to anticipate in the horizon, with no plans to make, with no stuff to rush and finish before she’s born. He looks at the red circle around today in the hanging calendar on the fridge, looks at Mary, unmoving, and the vacuum expands, beneath his ribs, through his insides, along his arms. Her fingers were wrapped around one of his and she was perfect. Today she was meant to be alive.

He calls Lestrade after the shower, and Lestrade brings Molly along with him to the pub. There are barely people around them as they sit at their booth in the deemed light and talk about Lestrade’s and Molly’s everyday life. He doesn’t bring it up.

A couple of hours and a few pints in, Molly looks at Lestrade and Lestrade looks at Molly, and John feels the question coming.

“Hey, um, does – does he know?” Molly asks with Lestrade’s hand on her thigh.

“Who?” John plays it dumb, downs what’s left of his Guinness.

Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Sherlock.”

“Oh.” His leg is jumping quickly up and down. “Does anybody want another round?” He starts to get up, but Lestrade grabs him.

“Does he? I know he bailed and all that but…”

John can’t say anything to defend him. Can’t expose him like that. Can’t expose himself.

“I think he’d want to know. I think he – he’d want to be here.” Molly smiles ruefully.

John runs a hand through his hair, looks at the far side of the bar. “There’s no way to reach him.”

Lestrade snorts. “Like Mycroft Holmes can’t get a hold of his brother.”

“Well, then maybe he told him. I don’t know. I can’t speak to him.”

Lestrade and Molly exchange another look.

“What’s really going on?” Lestrade asks. “I know Sherlock and he’s a man of his word. He took a vow publicly and then took the first chance he had to run from it? Nah. I don’t buy it. He’d never leave willingly, let alone to do a job for Mycroft. What did the pair of you had gotten into?”

“Why the sudden interest?” John bites to get them off the subject.

“You need him here. He’d want to be here. So why isn’t he?”

“I need him here?”

“Yes, just like he needs you.”

John swallows around a lump in his throat. “Well, it’s not my decision to make.”

“Can’t you tell Mycroft – “ Molly starts, but John had enough.

“No. You want the truth? Ask Mycroft yourself. He’ll have any answer you want ready. I can’t do anything. Sherlock’s not here and he won’t be and I don’t need him, and he doesn’t need me, we’re adults for fuck’s sakes. I’m married.”

Molly raises two eyebrows. Lestrade stares at him.

“It has nothing to do with Mary.“

“Doesn’t it?”

“It’s not a shame to need someo –  “

“I don’t need _him_. I have – I have – “ he has nothing, that’s what he has. He can’t even pretend he has more than that. He can’t lie about anything, whatever he has going on, but not that.

“You have us,” Molly says. “He’s just something else, isn’t he?”

“And if I need to drag him back here personally, then I will,” Lestrade sounds very serious. “Whatever you need, mate.”

“It – you need to let it go. Please.”

Another look. What is up with couples and silent conversations. They seem reluctant to do that, seem reluctant to let John keep all that is going on in that department a secret. But they are both too polite to push any further. They are not Sherlock. They are right.

John clears his throat.

“It’s late,” he says.

“Another round, then?” Lestrade asks with a lopsided smile.

“Yeah, um, not this time. Sorry.” John swirls the glass in his hand. “I need to go.”

They part with handshakes and ‘get home safe’s, and John burrows into his jacket even though it’s not that cold as he makes his way back.

When he steps inside the house, Mary’s not there anymore and the blanket is a pool of pink on the couch. John calls for Mary to make sure she’s not hiding somewhere, then picks it up and rolls it between his fingers. It’s soft and moist, probably from tears, and John clutches at it.

He is a bit tipsy, the world not sharp anymore, and the feeling that was a dull ache back at the pub grows in him, the need to have her here getting greater and greater. He holds the blanket close to his chest and thinks, if he found everything in the possibility of her existence, if he found meaning and purpose and love in the possibility of her life, could anything replace that? Maybe he hoped for too much, but she was right there for a second, and he saw it all. And it was marvellous. And then it was gone. And all he wants is to have _something_ , something that will make the hole grow smaller, but is there even anything that can do that? Nothing can replace what she meant to him, and John had lost so many things that nothing can replace already, and maybe that’s how he’s meant to live his life, with the knowledge of what happiness looks like, but not with the happiness itself. He could have had Sherlock, but he doesn’t, and he could have had her, but he doesn’t, and he made mistakes, and maybe that’s all that matters. Maybe that’s all that counts. Nobody remembers the lives you saved, they just remember the lives you didn’t. Maybe you can smile upon the world, but then the world turns, and it’s a frown, and that’s what you get back.

  
John stands there, silent, still, breathing Mary’s smell on the blanket and wishes it was still _her_ smell. He thinks about going to sleep, he thinks about watching some crap telly, he thinks about making dinner, he thinks about all the normal things he can be doing this evening, but ends up in the nursery, still dark, still colourless, still filled with boxes, on the floor in the corner where her stuffed animals were supposed to go, with a glass of scotch in his one hand and the blanket in the other.

He takes a sip, swallows the warmth down. There’s a difference between drinking with people and drinking alone. One of them is more pathetic. One of them is considered a problem. One of them is a dangerous walk down a path John knows all too well, a path John had been running from all his life. Well, desperate times call for desperate measures, and John doesn’t feel like running.

It’s ten minutes and a half empty glass later, when John’s world is spinning like it should be always, like he feels it is always, and his head is banging to the rhythm of his heart, and his palms are sweating and his skin feels too tight and he’s truly, honestly, tired of this life in a way he refuses to admit usually, but is too intoxicated to deny now, when he finds himself talking, out loud, slurring words in the speed of bullets.

“I think you _should_ be here, you know, you – you should. This is your place. ‘S not fair, is it? You should have seen her. You should have. You’re the only reason she even got a chance. You’re the only reason I’m – you. I love you. I love you too. Sherlock. I love you. You should have known her. She should have known you. I – I think if she had a chance, if you had a chance, you would get along, wouldn’t you? You would. I know you would have loved her. She would have loved you. I want you. I love you. Everything could have gone to shit, but if – if the pair of you would have met – that would have been okay, wouldn’t it? That would have been right. I – I don’t know what to care about now. I care about you. How are you doing? Can you talk to me? I want to hear you. Can you tell me – can you tell me what you’re doing? Can you tell me stories? I – I miss you. I miss her. You should be here. I fucked up, Sherlock. I fucked up. Today she should have been here in my arms and you should have been – God, Sherlock, please. Please. Tell me something, tell me what I’m not supposed to know, I can’t get her out of my head, can you help me? Can you be here? Can you come back here? Please. Please. I need you. Please. Please. Please…”

Eventually, he falls asleep like this.

 

Two months pass. John counts them in days, like he would if she was alive. He counts them in how many nappies changes he would have made, how many sleepless nights he would have had, how many times Mary would have fed her and sang her to sleep. He counts them in the minutes he and Mary spend together in silence and in the hours they spend apart.

He sleeps and works and eats and talks, but nothing changes. He keeps on living, but nothing comes to make it worth it. He holds his gun between two hands and points it at himself and knows it is empty, and shoots, the click of the trigger echoing in the room, and he wonders how many more people Sherlock had killed in the span of six months, and if he feels the same as John. If he thinks saving John wasn’t worth it. If he thinks Mary wasn’t worth it.

“You’re due,” he tells Sherlock in his head, but there is never an answer.

It’s Sunday, and the sun is out. It’s the kind of lazy day he could have spent with Sherlock in their bed, not getting up for anything, just… breathing each other in. It’s the kind of lazy day he _had_ spent with Mary in their bed, not getting up for anything, just breathing each other in, before – before he realized he doesn’t want her, not in the way you should want the woman you’re getting married with.

It’s not a coincidence that this is the kind of day Mary chooses to talk to him.

“Good morning,” she says, as he walks out of bed into the kitchen, scratching his balls. She’s reading the newspaper like she cares about what happens in the world. Maybe she does. Maybe it’s just John who doesn’t.

“Morning,” he replies. He makes tea. She doesn’t ask for a cup.

She pulls out the chair next to her, and smiles at him, trying for genuine, but failing. John swallows, and takes the seat. He has nothing to lose anymore.

“How did you sleep?” she asks, and turns a page in the newspaper. John sips his too hot tea.

“Fine. You?”

“Well, you know.”

“Yeah.”

Every night they wake up when the other does. It doesn’t matter whose turn it is, it doesn’t matter who will get out of bed at three AM, it doesn’t matter whose fault it is that they doesn’t sleep through the whole night peacefully.

Moments pass. None of them try harder than that. And then:

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“Have you?”

“Yes. John – can you look at me? I need you to look at me.”

John shuts his eyes for a brief second, and looks up at her, trying hard to mute the rage that follows.

Mary notices.

“You hate me. God, how you hate me.”

John blinks. He didn’t expect her to be that straight forward. They never are.

“I – “ he starts, but Mary cuts him.

“I don’t need you to deny it.”

He clasps his mouth shut, and looks away.

“You’re angry I said it?”

“Just surprised you brought it up.”

“I do seem like the long suffering wife who doesn’t like to think about the state of her marriage, don’t I?”

John rolls his eyes.

“The truth is, I think about us all the time, John.”

She’s back to reading the newspaper, and John wants to burn it. How come she’s the one to say it isn’t working, and not John? How come she’s the one to make it seem like it’s all about her, and all his fault, when she’s the one who lied to begin with? How come it’s not mutual, since none of them are here, ever, and it isn’t working because none of them cares enough to make it work? How come she’s the tortured saint?

“Do you?” he spits.

“Is that surprising as well?”

“Considering you’ve vanished from this house, yes, yes, it is.”

“We both deal with the loss in any way we can.”

“Don’t talk to me about loss.”

“Because you’re the only one who knows it?”

“Because you – because – “

“You don’t care about me. Not anymore. I’ve lost my girl too, you know.”

He hates hearing her call his baby girl _her girl_ , he hates the fact she ever belonged to her as well, he hates everything, he hates her, he does, he hates Mary.

“This isn’t about you,” is all he manages to say.

“It isn’t about you, either.”

“Who said it was about me?”

“No, I’m sorry, you’re right, nobody. It’s about him, though, isn’t it? It’s always about him.”

“What are you talking about?”

His left hand spasms and spasms and spasms. Mary folds the newspaper neatly before she goes on.

“You think I’m the liar here, but – “

“Oh, no, no no no, you don’t get to do this. You _are_ the liar here, Mary. Whatever lies I’ve told doesn’t come _close_ to – “

“But, it’s always been him for you, wasn’t it? It’s a shame he didn’t tell you. Maybe you wouldn’t have spent your days expecting him to come back and fix you again.“

John bites hard on the inside of his cheek, his jaw clenched, and he ignores everything she’s talking about except for:

“Told me what?”

“Six months.”

“He did tell me.”

“And then what?”

“He doesn’t know.”

“Oh, he knows well. Knew, at least.”

“I swear to God, I’m going to walk out that door and never come back if you’re not going to tell me, once and for all, what are you _on_ about, because I’m so sick of your – “

“Death, John. Six months and then death. He probably didn’t want you to spend years mourning him like you did when he – “

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?!” He jumps out of his chair, knocking it down in the process, knocking his cup down as well, lukewarm tea and porcelain splattering everywhere.

Mary looks up at him, lips quivering into a sick smile. “I’m talking about your precious saviour dying on a suicide mission because he just wanted to let you live your life. Because he just wanted us to live our lives with our daughter and our home and our perfect marriage. I’m talking about his body lying in the cold with no grave in the horizon and no certificate to remember him by. I’m talking about you never knowing if I didn’t tell you, right here, right now, that it has been six months since he went, and death is what comes now. So how does that feel? You know loss better than anybody don’t you? So tell me, John, how do you take it?”

John’s breath is coming in short and sharp, his whole body shaking. He stares at Mary and her sickening smile and her sickening self and her flat belly, and he thinks: what did I ever find in you? And then: No. No no no no. No.

“You’re lying,” he says, flatly.

Mary shrugs. “Maybe I am. Do you want to wait for the call? Because it’s not going to come, John. You were never meant to know.”

John could – he could – do such bad things right now. Bad, bad things. Instead, he turns his back to her, picks up his coat and puts his slippers on. Mary doesn’t call after him as he storms out of the door. She doesn’t ask where he’s going, because she probably knows what she brought on Mycroft. Mycroft, who sent flowers after his girl died, and who had sent Sherlock to Russia to die, and who –

 _No_ , he thinks, _no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no n on no no no no no no –_

~

There is no reason yet. There has to be one. Something terrible enough, deep enough, a doomsday plan that will function as Sherlock's ticket home. He's not going to die here when he's been given a way out. He's not going to fail. Worst comes to worst, he'll invent something. Worst comes to worst, he's pretty sure Mycroft won't actually let him die. Worst comes to worst, he'll just run farther. But he doesn't want this – he wants The British Government to buy him a ticket home. He wants a win: to stride calmly out of a plane to John Watson's smirking face, six months after he left, like the trip was no trouble at all. Sherlock has never wanted something as simple as life, and this is no different.

He's running out of time, though. In his dreams, John Watson checks his pulse and tells him he has seven days to live, staring at Sherlock with weary eyes, like Sherlock had disappointed him. In his dreams he's in an opium den, too weak to move, and no one is coming for him. In his dreams, it's mostly black, this still, thick oblivion; he's not asleep, he's buried underground. He uses dirt for warmth.

Petrovich likes him, and if Sherlock had had any life in his chest, he might have liked him back: he's clever, particularly ambitious but not particularly cruel. He treats the people he cares for well, but isn't blinded by them. There are no limits to his reach, not here, and therefore they are never in harm's way. He was efficient, and he valued that quality in others. He had no filter, or concept of personal space, the moving about of someone untouchable. And yet Sherlock had found nothing. Moriarty had always seemed to search for people who were a bit like him – in it for the power and fortune, but not just. Those were the greatest risk takers. They gained more. They were not morons.

The Red Circle hunts Russia like Moriarty's spirit, of sorts, a pale shadow of what was once a great spider web. But they were well informed. They had people spread across Western Europe. They had money. They had weapons. Had the ability to learn from the mistakes of a wider net that Sherlock had dismantled like a children's toy. Mycroft had said six months. He has two weeks left. He could disobey orders, probably. Just finish Petrovich off. But MI6 will just leave him there to die, and generally, murder is cheating. It's also not his job.

Wardell, Mr. Second in Command/Boyfriend, had taken to hanging around him, like a nice popular guy pitying the new kid. He wasn't that short, really. He was of a reasonably mediocre height and handsome in a boring, predictable way: bright blue eyes and a wide jaw, muscles stringing across his arms and chest. He reminded Sherlock of Janine, for no particular reason, except she was pretty too, with a wicked smile and dark, wavy hair. When they first agreed to meet, he had asked what she can bring to the table, to create a _fun_ atmosphere, that is (like getting high was for children), and she had approached the challenge with a smirk and the businesslike manner of every woman who had tried to reach this level with him: _you can be open with me, we're all adults here._ And _I know what you like._ She was fun, and not useless, and when she sat herself on his lap and grinded against him he couldn't have responded for the life of him, his blood all rushed to his head, his hands to his sides. The drugs were a useful explanation for that, too.

Wardell was nosy, in the friendly way of someone who didn't know better than to ask Sherlock questions. For instance: "Are you gay? It's just that it's usually the gay ones who figure it out. About me and our boss, that is."

Sherlock blinks at him. "I saw you fucking in the basement."

"Oh," he replies evenly. "The people who sees us fucking in the basement usually figure it out too." 

 

There is also: "Where did the scars on your back some from?"

Sherlock blinks at him. "Caning."

"Was it for fun?"

Sherlock walks away.

 

And: "So which is your favourite superhero?"

"I don't like superheroes."

"Oh. I like Scarlet Witch."

 

He's nice enough, but only to some people, loyal to a fault, but only for one man, funny to everyone, though you hoped, though the joke could be at our expense. He has a kid from a previous marriage, a boy, at the age of five, but that is MI6 intel. He's good with a gun, better with a rifle. He doesn't tell Sherlock shit.

Sherlock had cooperated with him, couldn't help but feel that he was the key to something, somewhere, but now he was apparently wrong, mistaken a knife for a key, a gut for a door, and Sherlock has nothing to gain from the burning of Petrovich's heart.

So he starts looking other places – Petrovich's office, for example, though that bares disappointedly little. He traces maps of smuggling roots with his fingers. He notices tattoos. He listens. Much of spying is waiting for opportunities, really, and Sherlock has no incentives to wait. The bright dye in his hair itches, the cold burning thin lines across his skins. He's something between a sculpture and a fossil.

There is nothing new under the sun, but then he's promoted, and that's an opportunity. They want his help with the moving of the exceptionally large shipment across the border to Poland. Rumours says that local police had been tipped off. In short, they want his brain. They want him plotting.    

He has one week left. He should just call Mycroft and demand a one-way ticket home. He accepts the offer instead.

They celebrate. At least, Wardell and he do. Wardell finds them an empty meeting room and a nearly full bottle of Shustov. They toast to Vernet, because he's an asset, because "Can you believe you were playing hard to get before? Who else would have taken such good care of you." Because drinking is fun, every child in Russia knows that.

Sherlock smiles, forcefully, thinks about all the secrets that were ever stolen by alcohol. He says: "Didn't realize you care," and then he toasts to Petrovich, for being this great, kind, brave leader, who donates money to the Trevor Project anonymously.

"He's the best," Wardell says, blue eyes dimmed slightly by the drink. "I was so sure he'll keep me a secret, but he just… rolled with it, you know? He doesn't let his power be dependent on others, it's so –" he stops, considering, then looks at Sherlock. "People think he's weak, sometimes, but we show 'em. I watch over him. It works."

This, Sherlock thinks, is an overshare. ""And are you any good at that? You're very short."

Wardell leans close. "I am excellent at that." He leans back, then smiles. "You know, the Patroclus to his Achilles, the Robin to his Batman."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "The Diego to his Dora?"

Wardell laughs. "Sure, if you want." A pause, then: "Watson to his Holmes."

Sherlock becomes very still, eyes searching for exits. He has one week left. "The Tinkerbell to his Pet –" he opens, but Wardell cuts him off.

"Though I don't see Watson around right now. Maybe not such a good example after all. Saw on his blog that he got married. How nice for him."

Sherlock reaches for his gun at the exact same time Wardell punches him hard in the stomach, pushes him to the floor. The Glock falls, slides away from him, and Wardell picks it up, pockets it. His smile is unkind. "He shouldn't have let his guard down. You're in big trouble, Sherlock Holmes."

They have miscalculated, and the mistake runs around his head, shining from the blood on his split lip. "And what could he have done?"

Wardell laughs. He points his own weapon towards Sherlock, hand steady. "Absolutely nothing."

"Then why are you wasting what I assume is one of my last moments with stupid questions?" He bites back.

"For fun! God, lighten up, would you?" But then the smile drops. "I'm not like him. I'm good at my job." A bit, "I'm not like you, either." He loads his gun, fixes his aim, first on Sherlock's kneecap, then shoulder, then head. He stops. "Game over, Sherlock Holmes."

**Author's Note:**

> We are also on tumblr at [asexualizing](http://www.asexualizing.tumblr.com) and [briefly-be](http://www.briefly-be.tumblr.com)!


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